


Anything You Can Do I Can Do Better

by rainedparade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Competitiveness, FC Barcelona, Foes With Benefits, Hate Sex, M/M, Manchester United, Not Canon Compliant, POV Ronaldo, Retrospective, Superiority Complex, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:41:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15228447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainedparade/pseuds/rainedparade
Summary: (I can do anything better than you)In the time before their decade-long rivalry, before the Ronaldo of Real Madrid or the Messi who would sit on Maradona's throne, before wives, girlfriends, sons, and daughters -- there were two boys who had competitive streaks wider than the pitch who loved the beautiful game.Ronaldo and Messi during the 2008-2009 football season.





	1. 2007-12-17

**Author's Note:**

> Although this fic features a lot of Cristiano/Leo they are not a couple or even portrayed in a romantic light. The sex is consensual but more for proving a point (or competing off of the pitch). In retrospect, this fic is really about Cristiano and why he transfers from ManU to Real... and of course Lionel plays a huge role in that.
> 
> ===
> 
> Also, here are some tags that don't apply to the main ship:  
> Pining, Unrequited Love, Love Triangle, Jealousy, Mindgames, Matchmaking
> 
> And other characters + ships:  
> Sergio "Kun" Aguero, Gerard Pique, Cesc Fabregas, Gianinna Maradona, Diego Maradona  
> Messi/Aguero, Ronaldo/Pique, Pique/Messi, Aguero/Gianinna

2007-12-17 | Zurich, Switzerland  
 _FIFA Player of the Year (2007)_

Cristiano Ronaldo thought he knew Lionel Messi. Sure, they had yet to meet on the pitch, but he had seen a couple videos of the other playing and had been forced to sit next to him for hours at a time on account of back-to-back award ceremonies.

He was a decent enough footballer though not in the same league as himself. It irked Cristiano somewhat, that though the professionals who selected the Ballon D'Or rightfully placed Messi beneath him, the little flea had somehow garnered more votes in the FIFA category. It had to be the rabid Barcelona fans.

No matter, Cristiano told himself. There was no way he would settle for second place much less third. Kaká's star was falling -- he was practically an old man in football terms -- and Cristiano had promised both on-screen and off that next year he would take home the prize. And then he would invite his family -- because what was the point of dragging them to Paris or Zurich to watch him get second or, in this case, third place?

And so he pasted on a smile and clapped along with the audience, unsurprised when Kaká went up to receive first place. Cristiano figured Messi would have a repeat of the award ceremony two weeks prior, unerringly polite yet silent as a grave, with a wardrobe that seemed to predate the second world war. Cristiano hadn't thought it possible but his hair was worse than it had been two weeks prior and it was pretty bad two weeks prior.

Both he and Messi were called up again after Kaká for a photo of the top three. The cameras were aimed at the winner, leaving the two of them on the edge of the limelight, and Cristiano expected it would be another hour or two or playing nice before his manager would let him leave. He turned to Messi then, wondering he could coax a whole sentence from the other, but he wasn't there.

On one hand, Messi was notoriously camera-shy. Rumor had it his manager had to negotiate the number of minutes he would be forced to endure with each engagement. On the other hand, it had been less than half an hour and the other had dutifully sat through the whole night in Paris. The Opera House in Zurich was significantly smaller too; there were maybe a thousand spectators among them.

-

It wasn't boredom that made him look for the other. No, it was irritation, pure and simple. Cristiano Ronaldo was as sore of a loser as they came and he was already rankled at placing third, but now second place thought he was too good to stay for the whole ceremony?

Cristiano excused himself from the festivities as only he was able to, lazily weaving his way through the crowd. He fielded five questions, shook twenty-seven hands, and posed for fifteen or fifty photos before ambling out of the main auditorium.

After poking his head in the three nearest restrooms and feeling somewhat stupid, he conceded it was possible Messi had some beforehand arrangement with his manager, that he would be whisked away from the paparazzi as soon as the awards were given out or something to that effect.

Right as Cristiano was about to head back into the crowd however, he heard a muffled giggle. He turned his head in the direction of the noise and waited. After a while, it came again. He hadn't heard Messi speak enough to pinpoint his voice -- understandable, considering they had had the most barebones conversation in Paris -- but the muffled giggle was certainly soft enough to belong to the other player.

He traced the noise to the upstairs seating and, having indulged in similar things, could put two and two together: when you snuck out of your own award ceremony to go giggle and whisper in the upper floors of the building, well. And if it were anyone else, anyone besides Messi who barely came up to his shoulder (if that) and yet managed to place second to Cristiano's third, Cristiano would have left them in peace. Hell, if it were any other time than this evening, when he was regretting not bringing a date of his own, media mayhem be damned, he would have turned tail and said nothing of it.

But he was irritated and okay, also a little curious what Messi's type was. On one hand, he wasn't so short that finding a woman shorter than him would be a problem and on the other hand, it would be hilarious if his partner was some 1.9 meter blond bombshell model.

Cristiano whipped out his own first edition first generation iPhone and tiptoed back to the start of the stairs. Then he held the phone to his ear, speaking in low but hurried Portuguese, before purposefully walking back to where the muffled voices were coming from and throwing open the door. He strode in and didn't look up until after he had slammed the door close behind him, giving the occupants plenty of time to cover themselves. He wasn't that much of a pervert; his mother had raised him to be a gentleman, after all.

As expected, when he lifted his gaze he found two sets of eyes -- one of them belonging to Lionel Messi -- looking up at him.

There was no need to fake surprise on his part though, because not only was Lionel Messi fully dressed and with another guy, but they were --

"...What are you doing?" Cristiano asked despite himself, lowering his phone and squinting at the little dimly-lit screens in both of their hands.

"Oh my god," the man that was not Lionel Messi squeaked in Spanish, "You're Cristiano Ronaldo."

Messi looked sullen, well, even more sullen than normal, like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"PES 6," he answered. His tone made it clear he wanted Cristiano to leave them be.

"Oh my god," his compatriot whispered again, leaning in as if Messi hadn't heard him the first time around, "That's _Cristiano Ronaldo_."

"I am indeed Cristiano Ronaldo," Cristiano interjected, somewhat disappointed at having stumbled into such a lackluster scene but determined to irritate Messi at least as much as the other had irritated him. He crouched down so that he was level with the two of them -- at least the other guy seemed to have better taste in suits -- and stuck out his hand. "I don't believe we've met?" he tried, flashing a toothy grin.

Messi's scowl was delicious, though Cristiano couldn't concentrate on it as his hand was _seized_ by the other who enthusiastically shook it with both hands.

"I'm Sergio," he said, "Sergio Agüero. Huge fan of yours. Oh god, oh god, is there pen, is there paper?" he let go of Cristiano's hand to pat himself down before turning to Messi and shaking his pinstriped lapels, "Leo, tell me you have pen and paper!"

"I don't," Messi deadpanned, looking down at the game, "And now we've missed three penalties. Great."

"Screw the penalties," Agüero hissed, "I want an autograph!"

"I've got a pen," Cristiano offered, beaming.

"That'll do!" Agüero answered, clicking off his own screen -- Messi let out a cry of surprise -- and presenting the back to Cristiano. "Here you go," he said, grinning from ear to ear.

"Huh," Cristiano said, taking the portable device. "What is this even? I think it's my first time signing one of these."

Messi snorted and Agüero laughed.

"It's a PSP," the two of them said at the same time.

"A PS-what?"

"Playstation Portable," Messi answered.

"It's the greatest," Agüero added. "You can play everything on it. _Everything_."

"Even FIFA?" Cristiano asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Even FIFA," both of them answered.

"Well I'll be. Maybe I should get one of these myself. And... done!" Cristiano finished scratching his signature on the back of the PSP before handing it to Agüero who beamed at him.

"Thank you so much!" the other said, shaking his hand a second time. "I'm a huge fan," he said, "Huge. I've watched all your matches."

"Kun, can we play now?" Messi whined. "I wanna advance to the semifinals."

And in that complaint, Cristiano understood the situation perfectly. He had been faced with it dozens, perhaps even hundreds, of times before. Some girl with a boyfriend (or even husband) would come up to him begging for an autograph or a photo and her partner would be standing in the background with crossed arms and a thunderous expression. He didn't enjoy causing such strife, not normally, but with Messi? With the shrimp that ousted him, however inadvertently?

Right as Cristiano was about to make himself comfortable, the door banged open with one of the FIFA VP's.

"Gentlemen," he addressed, clearing his throat, "While I am sure you are very busy, other winners would like to be photographed with you."

Translation: the press would like to photograph you with the other winners.

"Leo!" Agüero admonished, poking his friend's cheek (and were Cristiano not seeing it with his own eyes he would have never believed it), "You told me the awards were done!"

"They _were_ done," Messi grumbled, allowing Aguero to drag him up before shooting Cristiano a frosty look. Cristiano pushed himself up, affecting light-hearted apologies as the three of them followed the VP back downstairs with himself at the front of the procession. Right as they went back into the theater, he caught Messi's hand on Agüero's waist. Just a moment, and then it was gone.

Cristiano turned back and smiled for the cameras, as his mind was filled with pretty but petty ideas. Who'd have thought quiet little Lionel Messi had this kind of side to him after all?


	2. 2008-02-17

Despite having cooked up half a dozen plots to come between Messi and his PSP-playing compatriot, Cristiano forgot about them entirely in the pleasant after-party lull, surrounded by sponsors and admirers, each more of a sycophant than the next. They lavished praise onto him, with sparkling eyes and wide smiles, so much so that the bashful enthusiasm that Agüero boy had displayed faded into the background.

And here, surrounded by strangers who all wanted a part of him, Cristiano felt at ease. He was the center of attention, the best of them all; he was neither second place nor third and his star was merely waiting in the wings.

This was how things ought to be, he thought.

-

2008-02-17 | Barcelona, Spain  
 _UEFA Champion's League Start_

When he met Messi the third time the pattern of the two of them meeting off the pitch continued. Later, baiting reporters would ask if he felt like their first match was a long time coming. Some of the braver ones even used words like _destiny_. But the thing was, at that time, Messi wasn't even the playmaker on his own team. Ronaldinho was still a god then, the closest man alive to Maradona's throne.

And so it was that Gerard -- who was still Catalan through and through -- was invited to one of Ronaldinho's parties. Gerard invited him, more or less on a whim, as was Gerard's way, but Cristiano didn't have anything better to do and it wasn't everyday he was asked to tag along to meet _the_ Ronaldinho.

It was the Sunday before the start of the knock-out stages in the UEFA Champion's League and the Barcelonan villa was decked out in the blaugrana scheme Cristiano had yet to loathe. Ronaldinho had shone so brightly, having been sent out into the field seventy-four minutes in the game and scoring a goal within ten minutes the night before, that Cristiano felt a bubble of envy coiling into itself in his stomach. I want to be where he is, he thought. Then he shook his head and corrected himself: no, I will sit on a higher throne.

Gerard stuck by his side for the first couple hours, drinking for Cristiano as was his way, but after he had nearly a bottle of scotch in him, he switched from English to Catalan and Cristiano peeled off, sensing it was a lost cause.

The life of a pro athlete was a lonely one. Cristiano had learned this from the get-go when people he liked and people he thought he would get to like were traded and transferred here and there. Despite this knowledge and despite Gerard being like ten centimeters taller than him, two years younger than him and a defender to boot, Cristiano had somehow gotten attached to him. Their birthdays were two days apart and although there was a fair amount of ribbing on all of Cristiano's "fucking weird habits" (as only Gerard would call them), he had always respected Cristiano's teetotalism and never once tried to entice him to drink. In fact, as was evident by his current state of inebriation, he often drank in lieu of Cristiano, as if their ages were reversed or himself some knight of yore -- Cristiano didn't need it, but he appreciated the gesture all the same.

It hurt then, seeing Gerard at ease with his own people, and Cristiano thought of the transfer rumors that had been floating around since the start of the season. He envied Gerard somewhat, for having a home to go back to, a dream to chase after. There was no chance of continuing his career in Madeira and he wouldn't go back if he could, not for a long time at least. But here, surrounded by Catalans and Catalan footballers, Gerard looked like a hen returned to roost.

Cristiano tore his eyes from the scene and retreated to the upper floors of the villa. There were ties on three of the bedroom doors and a pair of briefs on the fourth. He rolled his eyes at the sight and proceeded into the fifth door where, lo and behold, the not-yet golden boy sat.

Cristiano cleared his throat and Messi turned to look at him. He was alone this time, watching some match while curled up in the corner of a white leather couch. There was no surprise in his expression -- indeed, he took one look at Cristiano and then turned back to the screen -- which meant he had known (or perhaps even seen) Cristiano at the party prior. He and Gerard were close, Cristiano knew that much, yet he hadn't even greeted his friend.

Okay, Cristiano thought, so he's stopped glaring daggers and now we're back to the silent treatment.

He couldn't help the knee-jerk politeness in him though. He cleared his throat a second time and asked: "Mind if I sit here?"

Messi didn't say anything. There was a slight roll of his shoulder, the world's most dismissive shrug, and Cristiano rolled his eyes again, draping himself across the rest of the couch.

As it turned out, the match Messi was watching was Athletico Madrid against Athletic Bilbao, La Liga. It was sixty-one minutes into the game and the score was 2-1. To make matters worse, Athletico's #8 was out for the count which meant there was little chance of a rebound.

If it were Cristiano watching the match, he would have turned it off after the red card. But Messi kept his eyes glued to the screen and judging from his posture and the tension in his muscles -- in between the glances Cristiano kept sneaking his way -- it was apparent he was invested in the game.

In the half hour it took for the game to end, the score didn't change, despite the spate of substitutions from Bilbao. Having missed the first half and a good deal of the second half, Cristiano couldn't say whether it was a good game. One glance at Messi however -- with his clenched jaw and balled fists -- told him which side the other had been rooting for.

Even when the match was over, Messi didn't turn it off. He sat through the grueling re-run of the three goals of the match as well as the dozen attempted shots. And then, watching an absolutely beautiful pass from Athletico's #7 to #10, something clicked in Cristiano's mind.

Oh, he thought, there's that kid again.

Indeed, there was Sergio Agüero, the same guy who had been huddled with Messi in the balcony of the Opera House playing PES 6. He wasn't crying, but there couple seconds the cameraman lingered on him showed a deep-seated frustration. Cristiano understood that frustration well, hell, every athlete could understand. At the very end, when the whistle blew and the winners cheered for joy, there was always the dark voice that asked: what more could _I_ have done?

It wasn't the end though. La Liga was more forgiving than most: there were no knock-out rounds, just matches upon matches. Messi must have known that, but it didn't stop a similar discontentment from settling on his features.

"Your friend's pretty good," he blurted out. Messi turned to look at him for the second time that night and Cristiano felt his cheeks coloring.

Messi didn't tease him nor did he take offense. Instead, he turned back to the screen and there was a positively _soppy_ expression on his face before answering with:

"Yeah. Yeah, he is."

And in those four words, there was so much affection, so much want, that Cristiano couldn't hate him or tease him. He wasn't the type to feel pity, not for other football players at least. No one was forcing them to play the sport and the grief of loss that the other team felt had never been a burden for him. But here and now? As he watched Messi stare at the screen with those crinkles in the corner of his eyes?

Some other emotion began to take root in his chest. He didn't like it one bit and opened his mouth, desperate to lighten the situation.

"He's even younger than you, isn't he?" he asked.

Messi nodded.

"He's got plenty of time to grow then," Cristiano shrugged, grinning, "Maybe the next time we meet, I'll be asking for his autograph." He didn't mean it -- hell, he hadn't even asked for Ronaldinho's signature -- but the comment was enough to get Messi to look at him again.

Messi's lips curled in a ghost of a proper smile. A he opened his mouth to speak, Cristiano found himself leaning close, trying to tune out the rest of the match recap.

"Or maybe you'll be asking for mine."

There was a beat of silence, then the Bilbao fans in the television interrupted in cheers at the second goal and Cristiano leaned back, laughing heartily.

"It's good to have dreams," he said at the end of it. He extricated himself from the sofa and stood up. "But remember this: so long as I'm here," he stuck a thumb at himself, "There's only room for second place."

A normal rival would have sneered and perhaps made an equally cutting comeback. But Messi only looked at him, blinking once, before turning back to the screen, their previous conversation clearly pushed to the background. Cristiano frowned and then stuffed his hands in his pockets and sauntering out of the room. As he was in the hallway, he looked back but Messi had his gaze trained on the screen, waiting no doubt for another glimpse of his... whatever Agüero was to him.

-

He took the stairs two at a time, filled with a sudden desire for practice. Everything was so much simpler with the pitch beneath his feet.

Gerard was in a circle of Barcelona players and they were all speaking rapid-fire Catalan.

"Cris," he greeted, going over and clapping a hand on his shoulder. His breath still smelled of alcohol though he was sober enough to be speaking English. "Where were you?"

"Upstairs." And then, when Gerard quirked an eyebrow, "No, not like that. Messi was there too."

Gerard laughed, understanding instantly. "Watching the match together, eh?"

"Yeah," Cristiano let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding onto, relaxing into Gerard's grasp. "Is he always like that?" he asked despite himself.

"Only with Kun," Gerard shrugged. There was an edge in his answer, but it was an edge which had been dulled by the years.

"I see." Cristiano resisted turning to look up the stairs.

"Well?" Gerard prodded him.

"Well what?"

"You wanna blast this joint?"

"Yeah," Cristiano sighed, digging his fingers into Gerard's shoulder while trying to calculate how much sleep he could get on the plane and if it would be enough to let him practice in the night. "Let's go home."


	3. 2008-03-01

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god jesus fucking christ man I can't even -- Ronaldo is transferring to Juventus, if this were some kind of soap opera I would put big fucking spoiler tags on this aaaahhhhh I don't know how to feel the whole point of this story was to get to the point where Ronaldo goes to Real Madrid to properly compete with Messi and...! [screaming]
> 
> *clears throat*  
> Okay yeah basically I'm a little bit lost as to how to take this story because of this new transfer so please bear with me. Also I have been drowning in Messi/Kun fics as far as the eye can see uhuhuhuhuuuu

2008-03-01 | Fulham, England  
 _Premier League Manchester United VS Fulham_

Cristiano should have been in high spirits after the match. Yeah, he wasn't a starting player. Yeah, he didn't manage to score a goal. Yeah, he was subbed in with only twenty minutes left in the match -- but that shouldn't have matter. He was aiming for fucking Maradona's throne which meant he needed to surpass Ronaldinho, Ronaldinho who had _just_ come in on a match with the same amount of time to spare and managed to score a goal in ten minutes.

The thing was: it was always about him. It didn't matter to him, on a fundamental level, whether the team did well, so long as _he_ did well.

He had long since learned to fake it though, clapping the scoring players on the shoulder and congratulating them. 3-0 was nothing to scoff at and even though they were still second in the league tables, so long as they won their next match (and considering it was going to be against Derby County, yeah, they were going to win their next match) they would be back in first place and those cunts from Chelsea could suck it.

On the bus ride back, because for whatever reason their charter plane was undergoing repairs which meant anywhere between four and six hours of transit, Cristiano sat next to Gerard, eager to have the company of someone who hadn't even been placed on the pitch, and started chattering about the latest and greatest gadget he had set his eye on.

It was 2008 mind you, a time where people still huddled around their televisions for news reports and were suitably awed with a cellphone that could double as a poor man's camera. And Cristiano, reasonably satisfied with his iPhone, was determined to get the next generation before it was actually out.

"Say," he started, when he finished his detailed recounting and Gerard was still switching between leaning on the window (too cold) and leaning on Cristiano's shoulder (too low), "How about I get you one?" he asked.

"One what?"

"An iPhone."

"What's wrong with the one you got me?"

"It's going to be outdated," Cristiano rolled his eyes. For someone who was younger than him by two years, Gerard Piqué made little effort in keeping up with the times.

"Works just fine for me," Gerard grumbled.

"Then it's settled," Cristiano grinned, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

He caught Owen's eye and when the other striker scrunched his face into a mockery of a kiss, Cristiano flipped him the finger. He was heartened to see Owen laugh, shaking his head before turning back down to his own handheld device. Owen was one of the new guys, didn't really socialize with the rest of them, but it was evident the goal had lifted his spirits considerably. He never once spoke of missing Canada or Germany.

"Thanks for coming," Cristiano heard himself whispering.

Gerard scoffed and shoved at him with his shoulder.

"Of course I would come. It's our fucking team."

Cristiano chuckled at that, taking back his arm and shoving Gerard back. "Yeah," he answered, "Yeah, it is."

-

2008-03-01 | Manchester, England  
 _Old Trafford_

The rest of the five hours bled into one another. Despite being on the pitch for only twenty minutes, he was still pretty tired, though it must have been due to the transit. Either way, when Cristiano woke from the nap he didn't even know he had sunk into, the bus was pulling into the parking lot of the Old Trafford.

He pulled his iPhone out and glanced at its dimly-lit screen. It was seventeen minutes past ten. Their next match would be in three day's time (well, practically two days at this point) against Lyon. It was a home match at least. Then it would be five days rest before the sixth round of the FA cup, also at home.

"Oh -- fuck," Gerard swore as he looked at his own phone screen.

"What?" Cristiano asked. "What's wrong?"

"It's Leo."

"Messi?" Cristiano raised an eyebrow. The most he'd heard from Gerard was that the other guy was an absolute Luddite who didn't even have his own cellphone. Well, he must have caved and gotten one in the meantime, seeing as how he could call Gerard at ten minutes to nine.

"Yeah, hold on," he called the other back immediately, tapping his fingers impatiently on the window glass as the bus lurched to a halt and their teammates flooded out.

"Leo? It's me."

Although he had been raised better than to eavesdrop on private conversations, even if they were taking place right next to him, Cristiano actively strained his ears, trying his best to catch whatever the Barcelona player was saying. Try as he might, he couldn't make out a thing. He concentrated instead on Gerard's expression, which was still caught between perplexed and concerned.

"Wait, Leo, slow down," Gerard was saying, having reverted to Spanish, "The signal's bad and I -- " Gerard's face fell suddenly and he clasped a hand to his mouth. "It was today? Shit, I didn't know. I would have watched otherwise, I'm sorry."

Okay, so there was some sort of match -- between Barcelona and another team -- and it was important enough that Gerard felt obligated to watch. Cristiano understood that much at least.

"How -- how was it? Did he -- were you -- "

And then Gerard's eyes went wide as saucers and he cursed again. "What!"

" _What_?" Cristiano ground out. It was ten PM and they had a match in three days and he was tired as hell but dammit he wanted to know what had gotten Messi and Gerard subsequently (or perhaps it was the other way around) so riled up. Gerard had the nerve to wave a hand at him, and Cristiano crossed his arms, sulking.

"Were you playing? Was Ronaldinho playing?" There was another pause as Messi explained the game. Judging by his questions, it seemed that Barcelona had lost. "You were subbed in late? Okay, that's understandable." Gerard took a deep breath, pinching his nose, "What about -- _them_? Who scored? How much?"

The answer made Gerard bite his lower lip.

"Christ," he swore again. "Are you sure Ronaldinho was playing? Christ, I would've loved to see that. Sorry, sorry," he scratched the back of his head, running his tongue behind his lower teeth. "Look, Leo. It's just one match. There'll be more matches. You'll beat them next time."

And there it was again, that swell of irritation that Lionel Messi caused. Who was he, Cristiano thought, to call someone else's teammate at some godawful hour, griping about his own loss? You didn't see him calling _his_ old buddies when ManU (on the rare occasion) got their asses handed to them.

Messi said something that had Gerard frown. When the bus driver tried to get them to go, he waved his hand dismissively and Cristiano threw the man an apologetic glance. He'd be paid double overtime, he whispered, and it was enough to make him shuffle back to the front of the bus though he was grumbling still.

"WHAT," Gerard said, very loudly. "You what. Why would you -- are you an idiot -- what the -- " he took a deep breath and pinched his nose again, exhaling slowly. "Leo, no. You're twenty-one fucking years old. Fucking act like it, will you?"

Cristiano bit back a laugh at that.

"No I don't care that you're only twenty," Gerard snapped, "You fucked up this time and it doesn't mean shit if I'm apologizing on your behalf. Fucking go to his city, take a train or bus if you need to, and make things right yourself. It's ten PM here and I'm tired as fuck, good luck and good night."

He said the last line in English -- in the queen's English no less -- and even though Cristiano would never consider himself British, he still felt a swell of pride at hearing it.

Gerard shoved his phone back into his pockets and sighed again.

Cristiano turned to him, eyes illuminated by the floodlights in the lot and filled with expectation.

"Well?" he pressed, when Gerard didn't speak for a while.

"It's Leo," Gerard admitted, stating the obvious. He scratched his beard and shook his head. "Barcelona played Athlético today and lost. They lost bad."

"Athlético?" Cristiano repeated. "Athlético Madrid, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"The one -- "

"Yeah. Kun beat him. Beat him bad by the looks of it. 4-2, and two of the goals were Kun's," Gerard laughed, shaking his head, "I didn't expect it. Neither did Leo, evidently. He went on a rant or something -- _to_ Kun, can you believe it? -- and now they're having some lover's spat and he wants me to help him out."

"But you're not," Cristiano said, cautiously.

"Hell no," Gerard grinned, "He's twenty-one years old, he can take care of himself." Then he stood up, nearing hitting his head on the bus' roof. "Come on," he urged, as Cristiano stood and they made their way out of the bus.

"Where are we going?"

"To find reruns of their match, of course!"

Cristiano dutifully followed Gerard into the club members' lounge where, after a bit of channel flipping, they managed to find the match in question. It was hilarious: Barcelona was honestly trying -- like Messi said, Ronaldinho, Eto'o, Xavi, and Iniesta were all on the pitch, but they were being beaten back by fucking Athlético. The two of them watched with such schadenfreude, tears streamed down Gerard's cheeks. Because watching other people lose was sometimes more satisfying than winning.


	4. 2008-04-29

2008-04-29 | Manchester, England  
 _UEFA Champion's League 2007-2008 Semifinals @ Old Trafford_

A week ago, Cristiano had finally met Messi on the pitch. To say he had been disappointed was an understatement. It wasn't just Messi though, but Barcelona as a whole. As a team, they were still reeling from the loss of Ronaldinho. A muscle tear three weeks prior; Cristiano had mourned despite himself when the news came over the grapevine. Ronaldinho, at least, was a man he would have loved to play against, and now, there was one less contender for the throne.

Barcelona was a different beast entirely then. Messi wasn't even a regular starter; he was #19 for crying out loud. It was obvious the team had been structured around Ronaldinho's offense: even though the defense was solid and Valdes was annoyingly capable of catching Cristiano's shots, without Ronaldinho, there was no way for them to _do_ anything with the ball.

Throughout both matches, Cristiano could feel Gerard's eyes trained on them. He had been on the bench for the first leg and then taken off the roster entirely for the second when Ferguson correctly deduced Barcelona was up shit creek where striking was concerned.

-

He remembered catching Gerard in the other locker rooms after their match on the twenty-third. He had been speaking in short clipped tones, Spanish, not Catalan. Cristiano had waited for him outside and when he exited, fists clenched and eyes blazing, he had punched the door and cursed in his native tongue.

"That fucker," Gerard snarled, and Cristiano had knitted his brows at the sight.

Of course, only one thing could get Gerard so worked up.

As Gerard divulged to him on the plane ride back to Manchester, "that fucker Rijkaard" (AKA the manager of the Barcelona team) had been stuck between a rock and a hard place as far as the investors were concerned. Messi had suffered an injury in the match against Celtic in March and the plan had initially been for him to sit out the rest of the season. But then Ronaldinho had fallen -- fallen significantly farther than Messi -- and now Rijkaard had been forced to field Messi again.

Cristiano pursed his lips at the story. It was a common enough occurrence in their world. Athleticism, the likes of which they pursued, came at heavy costs. They all knew that, and played regardless.

"Ferguson's not gonna have me play next match," Gerard muttered.

"You can't be sure."

"I'm sure." He took a breath and turned to Cristiano. His eyes burned bright, bright enough to scald.

"We have to beat them," Gerard told him. "We have to show their manager and their investors that there's no point fielding an injured player."

Cristiano felt the blood rush to his ears at the intensity of Gerard's gaze, even though it wasn't directed at him, not really. He clenched his own fists and swallowed, forcing his own frustrations out with a ragged laugh.

"Of course," he said. "We'll beat them either way. With or without Ronaldinho."

-

And now it was a week later and the second leg of the semifinals. The two of them were playing at Old Trafford, home territory for the Red Devils, and Ronaldinho wasn't on the pitch.

There was nothing as beautiful as watching old man Paul get through a gaggle of Barcelona defenders nearly young enough to be his kids and shooting the ball in at the fourteenth minute. Yeah, Cristiano's disappointed that it wasn't him, but at least it wasn't Wayne or Carlos. See, Paul was proper old guard, a one-club man, and Cristiano didn't feel threatened by him.

Cristiano cheered with the rest of his teammates, with the rest of the stadium, and then the celebrations were over and they were focused on the game.

He wanted to score so badly -- so, so, badly. He hadn't managed in the first leg of the match and he hadn't managed against Chelsea or the Rovers. The match against Arsenal felt like ages ago (a petulant voice whined that it was only a penalty shot to boot) and it didn't matter that Ferguson said he needed to save his energy, that he didn't need to play the full ninety minutes against the weaker teams, he wanted to play. He wanted to sit on the throne. How the hell was he going to win the upcoming Ballon d'Or if his manager wouldn't let him score?

It wasn't just Messi or Barcelona that was a disappointment. At the end of the day, even though United won, the only goal they had was Paul's at fourteen minutes in. Cristiano had tried, time and again, but when it was him and Messi and the ball between them, it was -- infuriatingly enough -- an even match. He needed to pass it, but no one was open, and then Messi was stealing it from him and someone was stealing it from Messi and so the remaining seventy-six minutes of the match passed by.

In winning this match, they were on their way to the finals. The finals of the UEFA Champion's League.

Despite this, Cristiano couldn't celebrate. Not fully. And when he saw the clench in Gerard's jaw at the end of the match -- he wasn't sure whether the other was frustrated at his own absence or the dire straits of his childhood friend's team.

-

"You did well," Gerard told him, when it was the two of them hanging back while the rest of the team went into the locker room.

Cristiano blew air through his nostrils.

"Did I?" he countered. If he closed his eyes, he would be treated to a dozen ways he could have gotten past Messi. He could have scored on three separate occasions. But he didn't.

"Good enough," Gerard grunted, shoving his shoulder lightly. "We won, didn't we?"

"Yeah," Cristiano conceded. "We did."

Right as they were about to go into the locker rooms, Gerard stopped and looked at him. Cristiano stopped too, though he wasn't sure why. His teammate of nearly five years opened his mouth and then closed it, softly shaking his head. His 'nevermind' was more a sigh than a declaration and he pushed back the doors, proceeding into the locker room.

For a blinding second, Cristiano hated their world. He hated having to listen to other people: managers, referees, assistants, sponsors... everyone who wanted a piece of the pie. He hated how they asked everything of him, and him alone. It didn't matter if the whole team was made of world-class players, because they had paid the most for _him_ it was an unspoken rule that he needed to earn it back.

Ninety-nine percent of the time he didn't give a shit. Even reveled in it. But that one percent? Seeing the flicker of disillusionment in Gerard's face as they both knew Ferguson wouldn't bring him on for the final match and even if he knew the other was worth it, even if they _all_ knew he was worth it, there was nothing he could say to change to change the mister's mind. He couldn't even get himself on the pitch when he wasn't wanted (or when they felt he wasn't needed), what the hell could he do about Gerard?

The grudging amount of celebration he felt left in a flash and he found he didn't want to have to make merry with his teammates, not then. He was lucky it was a home match; after a particularly embarrassing loss against Benfica years ago he had spent a quarter of a year's salary -- back when they were paying him less, admittedly -- on a private charter plane back.

In this case, because he wasn't in the mood, Cristiano could just spin on his heel and walk over to the parking lot. It was nearly ten at that point and although Manchester (along with the rest of England) was lurching into summer (having skipped past spring, it seemed) it was pitch-black when he exited.

He was in a rush, it was the only explanation for how he didn't see the legs -- the pair of legs, actually -- lying on the ground.

"What the -- " he exclaimed, as his foot caught against one and there was a shout of surprise. Cristiano broke his fall with his hands, growling a curse in Portuguese before whirling around to glare at the parking lot loiterers.

The _this passageway is for players only_ died at the tip of his tongue when he saw Messi and Aguero staring back at him. Well, only Aguero was staring, Messi was pointedly looking at his PSP, but Aguero's eyes were wide enough to account for both of them.

"Oh," Cristiano said instead. "It's you."

"Sorry about that," Aguero stammered, shifting so that he was cross-legged. Cristiano furrowed his brows at the sight -- were the two of them really playing PES behind the players' parking lot?

"Aguero, is it?"

"Yes," the Athletico player nodded. He didn't beam, though he looked close to it.

"Where's the rest of your team?"

"Probably looking for Leo," Aguero sheepishly answered in place of Messi. Messi grunted and shoved his friend with his shoulder. Cristiano wondered whether he picked up the habit from Gerard, vice-versa, or if it had come about separately. Aguero dipped his head at Cristiano in something approaching apology, before he turned back to his own PSP.

Cristiano watched the two of them play for a while before a thought occurred to him.

"So you made up," he said first.

Aguero looked at him, confused, but Messi looked up at last. His already-pale skin looked ghastly in the dim light of his handheld.

"How do you know about that?" he asked, voice sharp.

Cristiano congratulated himself on getting a whole sentence out of the other, even if it was an accusatory question.

"Gerard."

Messi grunted and went back to his game. Aguero was left glancing between the two players, confusion written over his features. It was kind of sweet, Cristiano could concede, either that Aguero flew over with them or that he was around Manchester. Either way, Messi had gone to him to lick his wounds. And, considering United had triumphed -- even if Cristiano would have preferred to score the winning goal himself -- he pushed himself back to his feet, dusting his knees off.

"Get your leg patched up in the meantime," he said in parting. He didn't bother looking back to see if Messi responded. Probably not, knowing the other. Instead, Cristiano walked the rest of the way back to his car, slipping inside and turning on the ignition. The drive back to his flat was dead silent and when he collapsed on his bed, he thought of all the legends before him: of Pele, of Maradona, of Ronaldo and Ronaldinho. He didn't feel like a champion, in short.


	5. 2008-05-30

2008-05-30 | Cheshire, England  
 _The Ronaldo Residence @ Alderley Edge Mansion_

Cristiano had managed to convince himself he was alright up until the package arrived in the mail. It was a small and light parcel, no heavier than a single kilogram, shipped with FedEx Overnight Priority from San Francisco, California.

Even without opening it, he knew what was inside. A pair of the latest iPhones, one for him and one for Gerard, and with that the memories rushed back, unbidden.

He tossed the parcel to the side, collapsing on his couch with a groan.

"Fuck," he snarled, though there was no one to hear it. He said it a second time, louder, but the house didn't have the right acoustics to echo. Then he banged his fist on the marble coffee table and covered his eyes, willing the memories away.

-

-

-

United had won the Champion's League last Wednesday. Though it was an honor in itself, the victory was bitter in his mouth. Ferguson assured him that he mattered -- for didn't he score the only _real_ goal in the match? -- but it was no consolation when, at the penalty shoot out, he was the only one among them that failed to get the ball in.

Everyone chokes sometimes, Ferguson had said, smiling so that his eyes crinkled and still Cristiano wanted to vomit. For Ferguson -- and for the other shareholders of the team -- the only thing that mattered was the score at the end. So long as they won, it didn't matter who had scored or how the game had gone down. They weren't players, none of them, not anymore, Cristiano understood this. To them, football was just a game.

He stood with his team on the winner's panel and forced up a suitably proud expression. Of his teammates, only Gerard had a similarly dark look in his eyes. Cristiano -- simple-minded and foolish and under the impression they were still on the same page, because what was five years together in the face of ten apart, eh? -- had thought him upset over his own absence in the final. He swung an arm around Gerard's shoulders after the ceremony, squeezing lightly.

There were no words, but Gerard nodded, pushing him gently with his shoulder.

There would be other matches, Cristiano thought. There would be other opportunities to stand in the winner's circle together.

-

He received the news the day before the official announcement was made.

Gerard came to his house, a rare occurence in itself, and Cristiano practically tripped over himself in his eagerness to entertain.

They had talked for half an hour about fleeting subjects -- though, in retrospect, Barcelona had been at the forefront of it all what with Ronaldinho _and_ Rijkaard both being let go -- before Gerard cleared his throat and looked Cristiano in the eye.

"Guardiola is coming back to coach Barcelona," he said.

And Cristiano was an idiot for not understanding what he actually meant. He took a sip of his water and raised an eyebrow.

"Okay," he shrugged, "And...?"

"And I'm going with him," Gerard said, cutting at last to the chase.

Cristiano felt his whole body tense and for a second which felt like an eternity, his every nerve screamed: _you didn't hear that, tell him to repeat himself, tell him that's not the truth_. But he was twenty-three years old and had been split off from half a dozen other teammates.

So he forced the twist of hurt, panic, and most crushingly betrayal, away, raising both eyebrows and rearranging his features into one of pleased surprise.

"Congratulations," he heard himself say. "You'll be going home."

Gerard crossed the distance between them, throwing his arms about Cristiano's shoulders and pulling him in for a hug. Cristiano went, and he let Gerard crush the air from his lungs. He closed his eyes, drinking in the other's scent. Holy fuck what did they feed Catalan children, a part of him thought, because Gerard was every bit a bear as he'd ever been.

The hug was over in a matter of seconds, with Gerard pulling away and drawing a long shakey breath. He sat back down on the opposite couch and pressed his hands together, breathing through the space between his fingers.

"Thank you," he said.

"Are you trying to soften me up for the next round of the Champion's League?" Cristiano asked, cocking an eyebrow. "It's not gonna work, you know. We'll kick your Spanish asses."

Gerard laughed, shaking his head. He pushed himself up and moved to let himself out. Cristiano was a good enough host to follow him to the door.

"I wouldn't expect anything less," he answered, and there was a twinkle in his eye.

-

The press conference on the twenty-seventh was a small affair. It wasn't like Gerard had been in the spotlight at United; it wasn't like Barcelona was paying big bucks for him.

Cristiano went anyways, along with the rest of their team.

A couple players from Barcelona showed up too. Messi wasn't among them though. Cristiano fought an irrational swell of anger at the discovery -- _you've taken him back and couldn't even retrieve him yourself?_ a wicked voice hissed. But he shoved it down along with everything else.

-

The days that followed were a blur.

He was vaguely aware of training like a madman. Five kilometer sprints followed by two hours on the exercise bike followed by another hour in the pool. Stretches, weight lifting, endurance exercises, he did them all.

Was this how Ronaldinho had felt like, he wondered, when was sick to his stomach -- despite not having drunk a drop -- at three AM after having hit six clubs within the A25.

Though he normally preferred the company of men, he discovered that his tastes were all too familiar. He didn't want rippling muscles or scratchy beards or low and throaty voices. Not now. Not so soon after. And so he turned to the fairer sex, amusing them with himself and himself with them. He was charming and witty, young and rich and handsome, and he had an accent, which made the women who liked them like him all the more.

Everything's alright, he told himself. It's just the way of the world. Players come and go and someday -- someday soon, even -- he would likely leave United himself.

And still, he stumbled into bed cold and alone and woke up the next day with lead-filled limbs.

-

-

-

When Cristiano woke up, it was already late afternoon. A glance at his iPhone -- the one that was already opened -- told him it was 5PM. His head felt clearer, at least.

 _Get a grip_ , he told himself. _You're Cristiano fucking Ronaldo and you do not mope._

He took a deep breath but when he closed his eyes, he still saw Gerard's jubilant expression as he embraced his new manager, his new teammates, his new club.

And he saw red.

"You're Cristiano Ronaldo," he said aloud, looking at himself in the mirror. "There is nothing -- nothing -- anyone else has that you can be jealous of." It was a lie, yes, but hearing someone say it made him feel a little better. He remembered Gerard saying the same thing to him three years ago when he had fucked up in a match against Chelsea.

There was no sense in getting mad. He could, instead, get even.

So he pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until United's manager popped up. He pressed call and, after a couple minutes, Ferguson picked up.

"Hey," Cristiano started, as a devilish grin seized his features, "I was wondering if you could get me in contact with Athlético's manager. Or better yet, get in contact with Athlético yourself."

And then, because of course Ferguson would be taking a nap at this hour: "Yes, Athlético Madrid. Yes, the fucks in Spain."

Finally, when they seemed to be on the same page, Cristiano sweetly added: "See, there's a player I'm interested in and I think he'll be a good match for our team..."


	6. 2008-07-09

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man this was an awkward and exhausting chapter to write. Aaaand Cristiano and Leo are still antagonistic towards one another, when will they set aside their differences and just get on with it?? Soon, I hope. Also I feel really weird about writing non-historical RPF so, like, even though certain details can probably be found online, I choose to just going to make them up otherwise I'll feel overly invasive. I'm sorry, it's a difficult thing to rationalize. OTL OTL OTL

2008-07-09 | Buenos Aires, Argentina  
 _Maradona family residence_

It was eight in the evening when the wedding festivities had moved from the church to the family home of the father of the bride. The streets were alive with festivities, celebrating the country's declaration of independence. Even though he wasn't Spanish, Cristiano couldn't help feeling awkward; he was clearly the odd man out.

"Hey," the groom greeted, as they were seated across from one another in the limo, "Thanks for coming. You didn't have to, especially with the surgery and all," he gestured at Cristiano's ankle and then scratched the back of his head.

"No problem," Cristiano answered, flashing a tight smile, "Thanks for inviting me. I needed a distraction."

Aguero laughed at that, reaching out as if to pat Cristiano on the knee or the shoulder before he remembered himself and quickly pulled his hand back. "Of course I would invite you," he grinned, "It's because of you that this happened at all!"

And by his side -- because who else would Sergio Aguero ask to be best man? -- Lionel Messi's gaze flickers to Cristiano. He had been as jovial as his friend for the whole of the ceremony, all smiles and pats on the back, it was really an effort in itself. But in that moment, his eyes were dark with muted outrage. Cristiano kept himself from shivering, breaking the gaze to grin at Aguero.

"It was nothing," he insisted, "You have my best wishes. Both of you."

-

-

-

Of course Aguero would get married in Argentina. Of course he would marry an Argentine. The rumors of Athletico granting him Spanish citizenship were irrelevant. This was the same case, perhaps even moreso, for Messi. Messi, who had been courted by the Spaniards at age thirteen to play for their team; Messi, who still used _sho_ instead of _yo_. From all the times his own mother had chastised him about settling down with a nice girl from Madeira (and when she said _Madeira_ , what she actually meant was Funchal), Ronaldo understood it well. His passport might've been Portuguese but that didn't mean his heart beat for Lisbon. But the distance between Funchal and Lisbon was incomparable to Buenos Aires and Madrid (or, in Messi's case, Rosario and Barcelona).

It wasn't like him, he knew, to be melancholic. He blamed it on the drugs even though he had stopped taking them as soon as he was discharged. There was a karmic sort of justice in this, he reasoned, in how he had spitefully meddled in Messi and Aguero's affair and was now off the pitch for ten weeks and forbidden from training for a whole month. He would miss the start of the season and no amount of wheedling, whining, or outright raging would change Ferguson's mind.

But.

Back to the meddling.

The marriage had not been on his plans at all. His initial plan had been to get Ferguson cozy with Aguirre and himself buddy-buddy with Aguero. The latter should have been a piece of cake, considering Aguero was practically a member of his fan club. Except then Diego fucking Maradona showed up at the gathering, officially to congratulate Aguero (or as Maradona put it "my dear countryman Sergio") on his U20 win (nevermind that it was _a year ago_ ) and suddenly all eyes were on him.

It didn't matter that Maradona was an overweight washed-up has-been. It didn't even matter that he was Argentinian, not Spanish (or, say, Scottish). In that moment, he commanded the room and even Ferguson wanted a word with him.

Cristiano valiantly tried to turn the tide in his favor (he wouldn't be himself without the attempt) but it was no use. He suspected even if he were to cross his arms and walk away in a huff, the cameras would be too focused on Maradona to catch him in the act. But a nagging voice which sounded like his publicist told him he had worked too hard and the goal -- the real goal -- was in sight and he had no right to screw it up now. So he kept a smile while carefully easing his way upstairs.

As with any party, most of the bedrooms were occupied. There was a light at the end of the hallway and Cristiano opened it, thinking it to be the bathroom.

Well, it was the bathroom, but it was also occupied.

He caught a glimpse of Sergio Aguero's horrified expression -- along with his female companion -- before slamming the door shut.

 _Well there's a sight for sore eyes,_ he thought to himself, though he could admit he was being facetious. He went into the loft and turned on the television. Though it wasn't a match, it was still about football. When was it not about football, eh? Either way, it was a special investigative report on referee bribing where Porto was concerned. _Trust the Spanish broadcasters to have that story at the forefront_ , he thought.

Cristiano ended up watching less than five minutes of the investigation before Aguero entered the room, awkwardly clearing his throat. Cristiano looked up just in time to see his female companion scurrying down the hallway.

"Sorry about that," Aguero said.

"It's nothing," Cristiano grinned, "It happens to all of us. But is the bathroom...?"

"Yes!" the other answered, voice cracking with false enthusiasm. "Yes, please, feel free, I'm so sorry."

-

When Cristiano exited the bathroom, he was surprised to find Aguero still in the loft. He was seated on the sofa with the television turned off. He looked up when Cristiano came back and there was a heavy flush on his cheeks.

"It's not a big deal, really," Cristiano offered, reminding himself that Aguero was even younger than Messi and sports journalists still called _him_ young. "It happens to all of us."

"That's not -- " Aguero spluttered, turning even redder, "I'm not just fooling around. I really like her."

Cristiano raised his eyebrows at that. He was tempted to ask whether Messi knew but said "Good for you," instead.

Aguero looked at him weirdly.

"Do you not know who she is?" he asked.

"No. Should I?"

The other inhaled sharply. Then he raised his hand, as if they were in class. "Actually, I wanted to ask you a question. May I?"

"Depends what it is," Cristiano cautiously answered, uncertain what Messi's best friend would want to know about him.

"Are you actually Portuguese?"

If Cristiano were drinking something he would have choked on it. As it was, he looked at the other incredulously. "Am I Portuguese?" he repeated, "Of course I'm Portuguese, what the fuck do you think I am? British?"

"Say something in Portuguese," Aguero countered.

Cristiano thought for a moment and then said: "Your stupid fucking boyfriend stole our defender," in his native tongue.

"...Did you just cuss me out?"

"Maybe," Cristiano shrugged.

"Huh, I guess you are Portuguese. Sorry about that. Your Spanish is really good though."

"Thanks, I guess." Cristiano thought of hushed conversations in the locker room with Gerard but said nothing more. Then he remembered the girl and turned the conversation back to her. As expected, Aguero blushed again.

"She's Maradona's daughter."

 _That_ , Cristiano was not expecting. After a confession like that, Aguero was eager to cough up the rest of the story: they met in Buenos Aires at some event for Maradona and had been dating in secret for some time. Of course it was difficult, what with the long distance and all, but the most terrifying thing was Diego Maradona himself. Apparently he had sent his bodyguards after his oldest daughter's boyfriend and, needless to say, gotten away scot-free.

Cristiano found himself oddly moved by the other's bashfulness. He had never thought of himself worldly much less old but when compared to Aguero -- who had now buried his face in his hands while lamenting how Maradona still treated Messi like a kid and thought of Gianinna as his baby girl -- well, the difference was clear. He would never feel anything like this, he knew, hell, even the longing Messi had was a mostly alien feeling. In understanding that however, something in him stirred at the sight and he heard himself speaking in Aguero's favor.

He couldn't for the life of him remember what exactly he said. Only that it was probably what Aguero had wanted to hear because he held onto every word and nodded fervently at the end of it. He grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the open cabinet and poured himself a shot for courage before thanking Cristiano for his advice and marching -- marching! -- back down to the party.

-

-

-

And here they were. Cristiano hadn't stuck around to see the showdown (if it had been that) between the pair of future in-laws but evidently it had all worked out, which was why he had received an invitation in the first place.

The newlyweds had since departed on their honeymoon, with Maradona kissing Aguero on the lips and loudly proclaiming his wishes for a grandchild to hold -- and soon! Gianinna was blushing and Aguero was grinning from ear-to-ear and like that, they ducked into the waiting limo as the night sky was lit up with blue and gold fireworks.

The party continued without them. Indeed, it seemed to grow wilder with their departure.

At half past eleven, Cristiano excused himself from the festivities and retreated to the wine cellar. Maradona had enough alcohol to enter a legion. He strode through the shelves of bottles and rows of barrels, exercising his ankle absent-mindedly, and wasn't even surprised to find Messi at the end of it.

Though the best man had put on a good face for the wedding, now that Aguero had gone, he had let his mask slip. His lips were pursed in a thin line and he was drinking straight from a bottle of red wine. There were three bottles on the floor, also wine, and Cristiano would've bet money they were empty.

He ducked his head in both apology and greeting, and turned to leave.

"Wait," Messi said. He sounded like he had one foot in the grave.

Cristiano turned and heaved a sigh, going over and sitting down on the second armchair.

"What did Kun mean," Messi started, slurring his words more than usual, "When he said you were to blame?"

"Actually I think he was thanking me," Cristiano interjected.

"Shut up," Messi's eyes flashed and he set the bottle aside, straightening in his seat before leaning forward: "What. Did. He. Mean."

"Why. Don't. You. Ask. Him," Cristiano ground out in reply. He couldn't resist rolling his eyes at the end of it. Like clockwork, Messi's expression fell and he dropped his gaze, picking up the bottle and sipping from it.

"I can't," he said, and he was the picture of morose then, "He's gone away and left me behind."

He looked so pathetic then and Cristiano was so acutely jealous. _This_ was the kid the press was building up to his rival? This withdrawn rugrat who abhorred attention? God was very cruel indeed, to make it so Messi recovered from his injury without the need for an operation whereas Cristiano would be benched for the next ten weeks, no if's or but's.

"What did you say?" Messi asked, blinking at him.

And then Cristiano realized he must've said some (or possibly all) of it aloud.

Rather than pass it off as imagination or his own (entirely sober) rantings, he doubled down, curling his upper lip into a sneer. "I said you're pathetic," he reiterated, "You're twenty-one years old and still dragging your friend along like a teddy bear? And what the fuck is up with this," he gestured crudely at the wine bottles, "Did you not see Dinho fall?" He snorted derisively and pushed himself up, "Christ, if this is the competition, there's no question who'll win."

Messi set the bottle down and glared at him. His deminutive form was trembling with rage.

"I have no idea what Géri sees in you," he whispered.

Cristiano froze before shooting a bitter smile, "No," he corrected, " _I_ have no idea what he sees in _you_." And then, before he could stop himself, he added: "He'll see. Barcelona was a mistake."

He strode back to the ground floor, ignoring the smash of glass against stone behind him.


	7. 2008-08-23

2008-08-23 | Barcelona, Spain  
 _Soler Residence @ Arenys de Mar_

Cristiano couldn't understand what Cesc' mother was saying, though he got a rough idea when she rolled her eyes and threw her hands up into the air. Then, sensing the bemusement of the only true guest in the house, she turned to him and beamed, gesturing at the feast that had been laid out before them.

Cristiano nodded in response, flashing a smile of his own before cautiously taking a slice of bread and nibbling on it.

"That's right," Gerard stage-whispered, "Just eat the toast. Slowly. Savor the tomato and garlic."

It was excellent tomato and garlic -- much better than the stuff they got out in Manchester.

"Alright, alright, mom," Cesc ground out in Spanish, mainly for Cristiano's benefit. "You can go already, we have enough food to survive the nuclear winter and you're making us miss the match!" He made a shooing motion and his mother rolled her eyes again. She left though, but not without reaching over and pinching Cristiano's cheek.

Cesc snickered at that.

Cristiano rolled his eyes. "Mama's boy," he muttered.

"And don't we know it," Gerard grinned. "Didja understand what she said?"

"Quiet down, the match is starting," Cesc whined.

"No," Cristiano answered, "What'd she say?"

"She said -- "

"Geri."

"C'mon, it's funny."

"What'd she say?" Cristiano pressed.

"She said: What's the world coming to, that three nice boys like us still can't settle down after the age of twenty!" Gerard translated. He and Cristiano had a good chuckle at that and Cesc came around eventually, though he made a show of quieting them down. Gerard and Cristiano had often crashed at Cesc's place whenever they popped down to London so of course they would do the same in Barcelona too. Gerard had been delighted with the new iPhone, nevermind that Cristiano got it to him a month after and not a week before the initial release; he didn't even know the date of the release (and to think Cristiano was the older of the two!) and promptly invited Cristiano to watch the finals of the Olympics.

"I'm guessing Aguero's wedding brought this on?"

"Yeah, it's been plastered over the papers here," Cesc sighed, "My mom has really kicked her nagging into high gear and I'm just like: Mom, let me live a little, y'know?" He grabbed a handful of chips and stuffed them in his mouth and said, with his eyes still glued to the screen, "You were there, weren't you? For the wedding?"

Cristiano gave a grunt of affirmation, not particularly proud of his own behavior then. He shrugged it off as a combination of painkillers and heightened frustration at missing matches (hell, it was now more than a month since he had been on the pitch proper) but in reality had come to terms with the irrational (he insisted) competitive streak Messi always seemed to spark in him.

"How was it?" Gerard asked. And Cristiano heard 'how was Leo' but chose not to answer.

"Loud," he said instead, "Argentinian."

"I'd bet anything it was a shotgun affair," Cesc grinned, only to wince immediately at a missed opportunity to score on the side of the Argentinians.

"Maybe, but they definitely knew each other before."

"You're getting awfully cozy with Kun," Gerard remarked, raising an eyebrow in jest, "Is there something you aren't telling us?"

Cristiano popped a shrimp into his mouth and gave his most shit-eating grin. "You found me out," he confessed, though his own dramatization was cut short by an excellent -- actually excellent -- play by Messi and Aguero (of course) only for the Nigerian goalie to apparate from thin air. The three of them winced as one at that and of course the broadcaster would replay the attempt at all angles.

"You know what I think?" Gerard started, as the camera zoomed in on Messi's disappointed reaction.

"What?"

"I think Maradona wanted him as a son-in-law."

"Get out of here!" Cesc snorted, shoving him on the shoulder. "If I were Maradona, I would've set my daughter up with Leo, how is that even a question!"

"No, no, listen," Gerard waved his hand but was momentarily distracted by the Nigerian striker making a mad dash, "Kun took his mother's name. Leo told me that."

"Oh," Cristiano understood immediately (and of course Messi would know factoids like this), "So you think Maradona wants the kid to have his last name?"

Cesc blew a raspberry, though whether he was dismissing the idea or the overly rushed play on the screen was uncertain. "You call this football?" he grumbled, gesturing at the front, "The brats in my neighborhood play better football than this!"

"Ah, here it comes," Gerard rolled his eyes and grinned, "The comparisons with the national team."

"Excuse me?" Cesc tore his eyes from the screen to glare in jest at the two of them, "But how many Euro's have you guys won? Oh, that's right, none! Nada! Nil!"

"Yes, yes," Gerard laughed good-naturedly, "All hail the great Cesc Fabregas, savior of Catalan, who played in the first sixty minutes of the final!"

"Sixty-three!" Cesc shot back, though he turned his attention to the screen where the two teams continued to be neck-to-neck. They were impressively even, all things considered. Cristiano supposed part of it must have been the additional U23 clause in the match, but he really hadn't thought either of the teams would be able to make it to the finals in the real thing. Aguero attempted another shot but it went wide. It was a kind of weird match, looking back, in that the first fourty-five minutes progressed without a single yellow card being handed out and multiple attempts had been made by both teams to score.

And then the buzzer blew for the halftime break and the three of them sighed as one.

"It's like they're having a goddamn tea party," Cesc muttered, shaking his head.

"The coach doesn't know what he's missing out on," Gerard stressed.

"Oh yeah!" Cesc popped open two beers and offered one to Cristiano who shook his head, taking a sip of lemonade instead, "Pep's your coach now, isn't he? How is he?"

"What do you think?" Gerard answered, though there was a twinkle in his eye, "He's Pep. Always has been."

"I'm fine with the weather and the women," Cesc conceded, taking a swig of his beer, "And even the food, most of the time. But ah," he got a dreamy-eyed look and Cristiano had to bite back a laugh because who knew Arsenal's A-Star Arsehole could look like that?, "Shut up you," he said to Cristiano before continuing his recount, "I've still got that jersey he sent to me, gotta be buried somewhere in my flat."

"You should come back," Gerard pressed, and then looked at Cristiano, "And you should come too. Barca's going to be the best, you hear?"

Cristiano laughed at that, "Don't come crawling back when we win the Champion's League again, okay?" Even though he was really thinking: _please do_.

"I'm not kidding," Gerard looked at him, "Pep's got big plans for everything. He's totally overhauled things on the team and actually carved out a place for Leo."

"You mean he's actually gonna be able to get the ball during matches?" Cristiano snorted.

"Oh ye of little faith," Gerard sighed, shaking his head. "Well, you'll see it when you see it, but don't say I didn't warn you!"

The three of them paused in their conversation as a thoroughly ridiculous commercial flashed on-screen. Cesc was the one to break the stupefied silence. "What's this I've been hearing about Leo not being able to play for Argentina? Are they just rumors or...?"

"There's always some truth in the rumors," Gerard laughed, though his expression was dark.

"So spill," Cesc prompted elbowing him gently.

"I'm not sure about the details -- Leo and Pep told me about it in bits -- but basically the club wanted Leo to play in the match on the thirteenth,"

"You mean the one in Switzerland?"

"Yeah, that one. But Pep intervened, either because Leo asked him to -- "

"Unlikely," Cesc snorted.

"Yeah, most likely because he knew how much it meant to him. But I'm happy, really. It's an honor, to be able to play on the national team." Gerard had a look on him that made Cristiano swallow because of course -- out of the three of them -- only Gerard had yet to make the senior squad. If it were the two of them he would have probably awkward patted the other on the shoulder and said some platitude. But he was home, in Catalan, and in the house of his childhood friend('s mom). Cesc threw his arms around him with a cry, hugging him close.

"Oh my poor Geri," the midfielder cried, mussing up the other's hair, "Don't you worry, Suarez already has his eye on you!" he turned to Cristiano and pulled him into the hug too, "And you, where's my heartfelt thanks for beating those nasty Germans back for you?"

"It would've looked better to lose to first place and not second," Cristiano deadbanned.

"Ungrateful wench!" Cesc declared, patting Cristiano's cheek with his palm.

The hug was prevented from devolving into a noogie with the restarting of the match. Both teams looked... well, not fitfully rested, but at least still raring to play. "Of course they'd be up and at 'em," Cesc insisted, "No one's done anything yet!"

The first yellow card was given to a Nigerian player fifty-one minutes in and opinions were split on whether it was justly deserved. Cesc thought no; Gerard thought yes; Cristiano sided with the former, but not openly.

And then at fifty-seven minutes into the match, Messi had possession of the ball and he looked like he was going to pass to Aguero who was a bit too far and he passed instead to Di Maria and --

"YES!" Gerard screamed, grabbing both of them by the shoulders and dragging them up. He kissed them both -- Cesc first and then Cristiano, and then danced around the room. " _YES_! GOAL!"

Cristiano was flabbergasted; Cesc less so. He clutched both his hands to his chest and made to wipe a fake tear away as the screen looped through the successful goal nonstop. Di Maria was screaming in exhaltation and his team was right behind him. The look on his face, the look on Messi's face, the cheers in the stadium --

"Our little boy has finally grown up," Cesc sniffed.

"A goal, a goal!" Gerard cheered, throwing his arms around both of them with a whoop. And then, when he saw Cristiano was still silent, he furrowed his brows and looked right at the other. "Cris?" he prompted, "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah of course," Cristiano tried to shrug it off but couldn't help adding: "It's just a little weird, seeing you so worked up over a team that isn't your own."

"I guess," Gerard grinned, "But it's Leo's team, god, look at his stupid sappy face, just look at it," he gestured to the screen and Cesc gave another happy sigh and Cristiano wondered why he felt weird and/or guilty about watching (and rooting for) Argentina in the quarters and semis when here Gerard and Cesc were, shouting at the top of their lungs for the final.

"The Nigerians could still score," Cristiano lamely appended.

"Yeah," Cesc nodded.

"No way," Gerard snorted, though he sat back down all the same. "The game's already over. They've got this."

Gerard was right: though the Nigerians rallied well and though they never let up until the end, still, the end came and when it did, the score was still one-nil. The entire stadium interrupted into applause. What was more telling however, was how their house wasn't the only one in the neighborhood cheering.

"Isn't your mom bothered by the noise?" Cristiano tried to ask, but Gerard and Cesc were holding hands and jumping up and down on the couch and screaming.

" _Look at our boy_!" Cesc shrieked.

"I know, I know!"

"Has he ever been happier?"

"He's grown up so fast!"

And so on and so forth.

Cristiano huffed to himself, watching the rest of the broadcast where sure enough Messi and Aguero were wearing their gold medals while draped underneath the Albiceleste. Both of them had smiles so wide, it almost hurt to look at them. And all of a sudden, Cristiano found himself missing the pitch, missing it like an arm or leg.

"Okay, that's enough of that," Gerard announced, jumping down from the couch, "Let's go play some football!"

"Really?" Cristiano perked up at that.

"No, not you, you're still injured."

"You motherfucker!"

"Aw c'mon Geri, let him, I don't know, referee?"

"I am not fucking refing, just let me play!" Cristiano whined.

"Pretty sure old man Alex would crucify me if I let you play," Gerard joked. "C'mon, let's stretch our legs a little. Maybe we can play with the neighborhood kids."

"No autographs though!" Cesc insisted. The three of them laughed at that. And just like that, they trooped out in the early evening to play football underneath the stars. And still, Cristiano couldn't wash away that split second of Messi, blissfully happy and laureled with glory.


	8. 2008-12-02

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Topping from the bottom and hatesex are verymuch in play here.

2008-12-02 | Paris, France  
 _The 2008 Ballon D'Or Award Ceremony_

He ended up fucking Messi in the afterparty. He hadn't meant to, hadn't planned it at all, and being a teetotaler meant he couldn't just blame it on the alcohol, but he'd gone along with it anyways.

In Cristiano's defense, Messi looked a _lot_ better than he had in the 2007 award ceremony. Yeah, part of it had to have been the hair and the suit, but he suspected the physiotherapist Guardiola had assigned him was more at fault. At twenty-one years of age, Messi seemed to be in the process of filling himself in and Cristiano felt a rush of anticipation, realizing that the other still had a long way to go. (He corrected himself immediately: both of them still had a long way to go.)

The way Messi looked at him then, clapping politely as he walked up to receive his consolation prize, was a reversal of their roles in Switzerland. Cristiano had brought his whole family over to underscore his triumph whereas Messi looked beyond irritated at having needed to come at all. It was a beautiful look, one that suited him well.

And again, Cristiano thought: this was how things should be.

-

-

-

Even before the awards ceremony, it was an open secret that Cristiano had become a little, well, obsessed with the Barcelona forward.

The days following the Final at the Olympics hadn't helped, with Messi and Aguero (and the rest of the Argentinian team) plastered on the face of every newspaper and magazine. The fact that Cristiano was still forbidden from anything more than muscle strengthening exercises added oil to the fire: here he was, poised to be the best in the world, and he had to skip out on ten weeks because of a goddamn ankle?

He made himself watch other teams play and told himself he was interested in the whol range of competition. But when it came down to it, he would only ever recorded (or had his assistant record) Barcelona matches.

Sometime in August Messi had been given Ronaldinho's number and like Gerard said, Guardiola was determined to use him to his full potential. Seeing Messi take command of the pitch was like -- like watching the moon come out from underneath a blanket of clouds. Cristiano noted with fraternal approval that Gerard, too, was now fielded more often. He looked so happy in his hometown surrounded by his countrymen, free at last to speak his mother tongue, that more than once, Cristiano had to turn off the set and go for a jog to take his mind off of things.

In this downtime, the grapevine proved to be as reliable as ever. He didn't know who let his not-quite secret out, whether it was his assistant or one of the dates he took back to his place or even his mother, but in early September with three weeks remaining in his hiatus, he woke up to a flurry of texts from Gerard, ranting about how La Liga (and Spain, and Barcelona) were just _better_ and how Cristiano should avail himself of the opportunity now that it was there to come back to a climate that was actually comparable to Madeira rather than (to quote) "waiting for his balls to shrink into themselves in the middle of fucking September". Cristiano didn't think to dignify the comment with a response though it would be a lie to say he enjoyed the weather.

-

And then it was the last week of September and the ten weeks were up and even though they felt like a lifetime. as soon as he stepped out onto the pitch, the Red Devils went wild and the stadium exploded with cheers. A gaggle of fans had spelled out his name in the front row seats with placards that surely blocked their view of the game but he was touched all the same.

It was as if he had never left.

His body was raring to go and while Ferguson had finally let him train properly in the last two weeks, training was not the real thing. And the real thing, the beautiful game, that was what he was there for. He scored a goal in his first game back and United beat the Wanderers two-nil.

He still loved football and football in turn still loved him. It was as simple as that. As simple as it had always been.

As the season picked up, Cristiano was unable to watch every one of Barcelona's matches but he still took the time to fast forward through the recordings, looking for flashes of genius and comparing the performance with his own. They had gotten into the group stage without Messi though he returned to play against Sporting and now Donetsk.

And then there had been a flurry of activity in October: a dozen matches and the opening of a (not really) flagship store in London. The weeks bled into one another and through it all, he thought of Gerard, of Messi, of Barcelona and Madeira and the yet-unoccupied throne. There was a path to it, one that seemed clearer than ever before. And even though it seemed to rest on a peak above the clouds, Cristiano was certain he was the closest one to it and so he took a deep breath and continued his ascent.

-

-

-

He reached it. Of course he did. Who else deserved it more?

He had played the beautiful game. He had played best. And so they gave him the crown, the throne, the glorious golden ball that said he was number one in the world.

And he was happy.

But it was not enough.

-

At the present, it was difficult to put a name to the emotion that swirled about in him. The lightness that threatened to smother him sure as hell wasn't jealousy or irritation, but it was nowhere as soft, sweet, or sentimental as Aguero's feelings for his girl or hell Messi's feelings for Aguero. (A nagging voice asked about his own feelings for Gerard but he had gotten exceedingly good at ignoring it.) It was... a milder form of glee, maybe. Something like: this was how things were and this was how things ought to be.

There was an overpouring of love too, love for his family, for God, for his team and teammates, and of course, for the sport itself.

So it was with this almost childish smugness that Cristiano walked in on Lionel Messi nursing another drink all by his lonesome, this time in the private lounge tucked away behind the concert hall.

"I thought this place was winners only?" Cristiano said in greeting.

Messi looked up and glared at him, flipping him the finger before downing his drink.

Cristiano laughed, going over and ruffling the other man's hair. It was softer than it looked; whoever he had taken on as a stylist had done wonders with it though it was (of course) leagues below his own coif.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologized, falling back onto the opposite seat and watching Messi pour himself another drink. "Couldn't help myself. Congratulations, by the way."

Messi kept his silence and Cristiano revelled in his glare.

This time however Messi didn't drop his gaze. He didn't ignore Cristiano in favor of his PSP or the television. It wasn't like the night in Buenos Aires, where he had clearly been drinking to get drunk. Cristiano kept himself from smiling; if he did, he worried it would be more sappy than pitying and he still wanted to push Messi's buttons, to make him understand he would always be second best.

"Not a drop?" Messi asked, going over to the unmanned bar to refill his own glass.

"No."

Messi took a sip and then went back to his seat. "Why not?" he asked. His tone was challenging.

Cristiano swallowed and stood up, suddenly thirsty, and went over to the bar and poured himself a glass of sparkling water. Messi was still looking at him when he came back and Cristiano bit the inside of his mouth, looking for the right words.

"I don't plan to make the same mistakes as my dad," he ended up saying. He thought of the shriveled-up shadow that had been his father. He thought of his mother's silent tears and the pounding of fists against the dining table that had an uneven leg. It had been four years since.

They lapsed into another long silence then, broken only when Messi drained his second glass and set it down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Géri told me you've been taping our matches."

"So what if I have?" Cristiano fought to keep his tone measured, careless, though the words were too defensive for his liking.

"Are you considering it?" Messi asked.

"Considering what."

"Joining us."

Cristiano laughed. "Not on your life," he answered, "Even if you got on your hands and knees and begged for it."

Messi smiled, leaning forward, and Cristiano stared, frozen to the spot, as Messi reached out and slowly carressed the side of his face. The touch was impossibly light but it was as if he had been branded. He shivered and Messi leaned closer, closing the distance between them as he slid onto his knees, wedging himself between Cristiano's thighs.

Cristiano was half-hard at that point and he went with the flow, spreading his legs wide and tilting his head sideways and making every attempt to look unaffected. He had wanted this, he realized, and he had wanted it for a long time coming.

"What is this?" he asked, as Messi's fingers played with the opening of his slacks. Through self-restraint alone he kept himself from bucking into the touch or worse, moaning.

"Think of it as a congratulations of sorts," Messi shrugged. He freed Cristiano's cock, reached up to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, and then opened his mouth to take Cristiano in one fell swoop.

Cristiano bit down _hard_ on the inside of his mouth, suddenly overwhelmed. There was Messi's mouth on his cock, hot and wet and tight; Messi's tongue laving at the underside; Messi's throat clenching about his cockhead -- Messi, Messi, Messi.

Messi's eyes were closed in concentration and Cristiano found himself trying to count his eyelashes. He couldn't focus though, kept losing count somewhere before ten (and there were a hell of a lot more than ten). He became acutely aware of his fingernails digging into the leather of the couch, as if his body knew before his mind that this too, was some sort of competition.

When Messi extracted himself, Cristiano was fully hard and dripping wet. He hadn't moaned, though his knuckles were white and his whole body seemed to be stretched as taut as a bowstring.

He grit his teeth as Messi looked up at him, the picture of insouciance. Feeling obliged to say something, he ground out: "I accept your congratulations."

A ghost of a smile flashed by Messi's face but his eyes were hard, devoid of good humor.

With a surprising amount of force -- Cristiano was reminded of a broadcaster noting Messi's hidden upper-body strength -- he shoved Cristiano so that he rested fully on the couch. Cristiano went, watching all the while, as Messi shed the least amount of clothing possible so that his bare ass was grinding up against Cristiano's cock.

If it were anyone else, Cristiano would have reversed their positions in an instant, perhaps even in more ways than one. For one, he tended to go for taller and bulkier guys and for another, quite enjoyed being filled by them. But because it was Messi -- Messi, who he had watched for months and now lay damned to second place at his feet; Messi, who had stolen Gerard and who would go on to steal Cesc -- he made himself settle against the couch.

Messi reached forward to stroke his face. His thumb traced Cristiano's cheekbone, almost contemplative.

And then, with no warning whatsoever and while their eyes were still trained on one another, he lifted his hips up and then down, so that he was in one fluid motion impaled upon Cristiano.

Cristiano cursed at the sudden tightness; unable to believe that Messi had taken him -- all of him -- without the slightest prep. He sat on him now with a patently bored expression and Cristiano felt the flames of ire rise as he fought to rearrange his own features.

"How is it?" Messi asked, raising an eyebrow. His tone and expression stood in contrast with Cristiano's; as if their positions were reversed.

 _This absolute son of a bitch_ , Cristiano thought, holding onto the couch and dredging up his most cocksure smile.

"Not bad," he rasped. "But I've had better."

Messi clenched up and Cristiano bit into his cheek again to keep from wincing. He couldn't stop the sharp intake of breath nor the knowing look that had settled on Messi's features.

"Is that so," Messi murmured, moving his hand to grab a fistful of Cristiano's hair. He twisted hard but the pain was nothing like the tightness at the base of his cock; Cristiano grit his teeth regardless. Messi began to rock against him then, pulling at Cristiano's scalp each time his hips rolled.

Cristiano dropped his gaze to look at the other's crotch. Of course he wasn't even at half-mast. He cautiously moved one hand towards it only to be smacked away. Messi tightened against him, glaring, and Cristiano fought to keep calm. Deep breaths, he told himself, as he stubbornly raised his eyes and jutted his chin out, keeping his head as still as possible without regard to the fingernails that were digging crescents into the roots.

It was no use.

Slowly but surely, Messi worked him towards orgasm. He wondered if the other would make him beg for it. He feared at that point he _would_ actually beg for it. But Messi was colder than that.

Right as Cristiano climaxed, bucking his hips up and groaning despite himself, Messi slid his hand down so that it was wrapped tight around Cristiano's throat. Then he leaned forward and whispered:

"Géri is mine. He always has been and always _will_ be."

Cristiano's eyes snapped open at that and he pushed himself up and away from the post-orgasmic haze to sneer at the other, "Just like Kun is yours?" he taunted.

If he hadn't just come, he would have surely gotten off from how quickly Messi's face contorted itself. He took a deep breath, the picture of nonchalance a second later, as if Cristiano hadn't dug into a fresh wound, and answered with: "Don't call him that."

"Why not?" Cristiano countered. "We're friends now. Didn't he tell you that it's because of me that -- "

Messi's fingers turned to steel. Cristiano was so horrified at the quiver of arousal he felt in the other's vice-grip, he almost didn't catch his response.

"I will never forgive you," Messi hissed, "Even if you lost every match and broke both legs, I would never forgive you. Never." Coming from anyone else, Cristiano would have laughed. But Messi meant every word, damned though he still was.

As soon as it had started it was over. Messi removed his hand and pulled himself up and away. Cristiano was left with the wind knocked out of him, sprawled like a whore out on the couch.

At last, when Messi had gone over to the bar to clean himself up, Cristiano found his voice. He sat up and rubbed at his throat.

"I don't give a shit," he sneered, "You think I want your forgiveness? You think I care what second place thinks? Don't make me laugh."

Messi turned to look at him. His eyes were sharp and his mouth was set in a thin line.

Cristiano's humors were up however and he was eager to press his advantage: "Face it, Messi. You'll always be second place so long as I'm around."

And though the other had heard him speak, he didn't immediately reply, choosing to straighten his clothes out. When he was finished, he looked absurdly normal with not a hair out of place and Cristiano wanted nothing more than to punch him, just to leave a mark, to have some proof they had met.

"We'll see," Messi said instead, curling his lips into a sneer of his own. Then he shrugged, opening the door, but couldn't help tossing back: "You may find second place suits you well." He closed the door behind him and Cristiano flopped back onto the couch, covering his face with his hands and laughing to the empty room.


	9. 2008-12-21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am reaching new frontiers in frustration and hatesex, hooray! ((omg what is this fic turning into??))
> 
> Phonesex, NTR, not-initially-consensual voyeuring are in play here.

2008-12-21 | Yokohama, Japan  
 _FIFA Club World Cup 2008 @ The International Stadium_

There was just -- something, something about playing in a stadium that Ronaldo ( _the_ Ronaldo) had played in. Some kind of feeling, that he was walking in a holy place.

Of course he remembered that match. He had still been in Lisbon at the time, with Sporting CP in fact, but there wasn't a player on the team that hadn't taken the time out to watch the final. And there he had been, _Il Fenomeno_ himself, and although the Cristiano now would be hard-pressed to admit it, as a starry-eyed teenager he'd felt some pride knowing they shared a mother tongue.

As he walked the pitch after the match, he felt his own disappointment drain away as he thought back to Ronaldo's performance. He had been the best, the brightest, the only man alive who could score two goals in ten minutes against Germany in the finals. And in remembering him, Cristiano felt himself humbled.

So what if Wayne had scored the winning (and indeed, only) goal? He had scored a goal in half-time the week before _and_ Ferguson had let him play the entirety of both matches. And he had to admit, it had been a beautiful shot on Wayne's part. He couldn't fault his teammate for being in the right place at the right time. And now they were champions again and it was the first time United had won the Club World Cup to boot.

There was a long way yet for him. It didn't matter that he had won the Ballon d'Or, it didn't matter if he ended up winning Player of the Year. Ronaldo had won both those titles, and multiple times to boot.

-

It was smiles all around as they walked off the pitch and there was lots of friendly ribbing in the locker room. As one, the team left for a celebratory dinner which of course segued into bar and club hopping. That the barkeeps and bouncers of Yokohama spoke fluent English was inconsequential; everyone was suddenly determined to practice the three or four phrases of Japanese they'd picked up in transit.

At the beginning of his tenure with United, Cristiano had felt isolated whenever his teammates drank the night away. When he was a greenhorn there would be an immense amount of pressure for him to partake in drink. But then Gerard had joined and the man had a bottomless stomach as well as the liver of the gods... well, either way, he took to dragging Cristiano with the rest of them and drinking whenever someone else tried to entice Cristiano.

Thinking of Gerard brought back a sharp sting of longing.

Cristiano looked at his teammates. The ones that were still drinking had constitutions like Gerard; there were a couple passed out on the floor and the rest had probably gotten a date for the night. Figuring the bulk of the celebrations were over, he hailed himself a taxi and went back to the hotel. As he waited for sleep to overtake him, he reached for his phone and without really thinking, dialed Gerard.

He cursed, frantically trying to terminate the call. Instead, he somehow activated the speakerphone. A minute of baited breath passed before he was asked to leave a message for the owner because of course Gerard hadn't bothered with setting up his answering machine.

It was ridiculous, but he felt slighted. He connected the phone to the charger before sliding underneath the covers. It wasn't like he had wanted to say anything, he told himself; it wasn't like he was big on courtesy calls.

-

At three minutes to six the next day, the ringtone he had set for Gerard woke him up.

"Hello?" he rasped into the phone, entirely on autopilot.

"Why did you call?" a voice that was most certainly not Gerard's asked.

Cristiano spluttered and did a double-take, checking the screen to confirm it really was Gerard -- or at least Gerard's phone -- calling him. It was.

"Why do you have Gerard's phone?" he demanded.

"I asked first," Messi answered in a tone that brooked no dissent. Cristiano felt his right eye twitch; _Talk about waking up on the wrong side of the bed_ , he thought.

"We won the Club World Cup." The answer was lame enough by itself, the fact he had to think for a whole minute before coming up with it made it all the worse.

"I know. We saw. Congratulations."

Cristiano swallowed. "We?" he repeated, not daring himself to hope.

"Me, Géri, and Cesc."

"I see." On one hand, it was kind of touching that the three of them would take time out of their schedules to watch his match. On the other hand, he still remembered when Gerard, overcome with emotion, had kissed both himself and Cesc while watching the Olympic Finals. The thought of them being too preoccupied to take his call made his gut twist. "And now...?" he asked, masochistic enough to want the details.

"Oh Géri is here," Messi reassured him. "Do you want to talk to him?"

"Yes. Yes I would like to talk to him. That is why I called him and not you."

Messi only laughed at that. "Alright. I should warn you though, he's drunk more than his fair share." Cristiano scowled at the implications but waited. Sure enough, Messi put Gerard on the line.

"Cris!" the other exclaimed, way too loud at six in the morning. Cristiano smiled despite himself.

"Haven't missed me yet?" he teased, "If you were with us, you'd have won the Club World Cup too."

"Pshhh," Gerard snorted, and then giggled, "I saw it though. I saw it with Leo and Cesc."

"I know."

"Bullshit! How do you know?"

"Messi just told me."

"Oh." Gerard must've been pretty drunk as he let out another loud exhale, searching for the right words. "Well, you were pretty good."

"Pretty good?" Cristiano raised an eyebrow, "When has Barcelona ever won the Club World Cup?"

"I don't know," was the honest reply. "Want me to ask?"

"No I don't want you to ask, I already know."

"Oh." A pause. "When did we, then?"

"NEVER. That's the point." _And if you hadn't ditched us like that then it would have been your victory too,_ Cristiano couldn't work up the nerve to say. Instead, he listened as Gerard laughed and then grumbled, imagining how he curled this way and that when drunk, trying to find some impossible position to perch atop.

"Well fuck you too man," Gerard said at last. "You'll see. You and Cesc both. Barca's back baby and she'll fucking sweep the leagues."

"How are you guys even scoring without Dinho?" Cristiano jibed.

"Don't need'em! We fucking trounced Villarreal today, except then I got a red card so I'm out for the next match but -- "

"How the hell did you get a red card."

"Well it's like -- "

"Don't you play _defense_?!"

"Of course! But it's like, the ref is an absolute piss-taker," Gerard made another dismissive noise, "It doesn't matter," he insisted, "We beat them and Pep's not even that mad at me."

"You got a red card," Cristiano repeated. "While fucking defending. How is that even possible?!"

"It's football, Cris," Gerard answered, and Cristiano supposed the other wasn't drunk past the point of being able to roll his eyes. "Everything's possible. You know that best."

 _You're wasting away at Barcelona,_ Cristiano wanted to say. But it wasn't like Barcelona was a second-class team and he still remembered how happy Gerard looked, at the chance to go back home. So he curled his free hand into a fist and said nothing.

There was a crackle of static which Cristiano thought was a snore. Except then Gerard spoke again.

"So," he said, "Yokohama?"

"Yeah. Yokohama."

"Didja watch the World Cup there?"

"No, I was in Lisbon."

"But you saw it."

"Of course."

Gerard laughed at that. "How was it?" he pressed.

"Like nothing you'd believe," Cristiano relented, chuckling into the phone. "You should have come. You would've understood."

"I don't know about that," Gerard answered, and as with all things which involved Messi, the other shoe dropped. His voice trailed off and there was another crackle of static and Cristiano strained his ears to hear: "Leo, what are you -- "

There was a tell-tale moan and Cristiano's breath caught. His heart seemed determined to beat itself out of his ribcage.

"Oh God," Gerard whispered, "You are -- " he slid into Catalan as Cristiano's imagination went into overdrive. Gerard's breath audibly hitched and he asked in a thin voice, "Cris? Still there?"

Every rational bit of him screamed to hang up the line. He knew how absolutely wasted people were. They'd remember next to nothing the next day.

But he knew. He knew that this, too, was some fucked-up challenge on Messi's part. And he was Cristiano Ronaldo, the 2008 winner of the Ballon d'Or and the one who would climb above them all -- Pélé, Maradona, Ronaldo, and so forth. He wouldn't back down from a challenge, especially not one given by a pint-sized pipsqueak like Messi.

"Yes," he made himself answer. "Still here."

"He's still there," Gerard echoed. And then, "Christ you are so fucked up." He giggled, drunker than Cristiano had ever seen him and added: "I like it."

He had to have some inclination towards masochism. It was the only explanation for why he didn't hang up the phone but instead _switched the speakerphone on_ and slid back underneath the sheets.

It was funny veering into pathetic, how that meaningless kiss during the Olympics was legitimately the farthest he had ever gotten with the other. Because outside of the occasional (alarmingly recurrent, in fact) fantasies, Cristiano understood on a fundamental level that they were teammates and their professional relationship was the most important one. He could imagine being fucked by Gerard, he could imagine Gerard's mouth about his cock, but so long as they were on the same team --

Except now they weren't.

And now Gerard was breathing in so short and sharp and every once in a while he would whine, breathy and low and Cristiano could imagine it, it was as if he was there, and he hated how hard the sound made him, hated how he was stroking himself beneath the sheets.   
Most of all he hated how he wanted to switch places with Messi.

There was a terrible five seconds of silence.

And then --

"Leo, _fuck_."

Cristiano snapped his legs shut, willing himself to ignore his own throbbing arousal. He grabbed the phone and switched it back to normal, pressing it to his ear. There was shuffling in the background punctuated by another gnash of static.

"Did you like that?" Messi, the absolute cunt, asked him at the end of it. Cristiano could see the same smug smile he wore in Paris, still framed with those cold eyes.

"I did," he answered, oozing satisfaction, "I liked it very much." Messi chuckled on the other side, and Cristiano would bet anything he had been brought to the edge too. So he pressed forward, intent on turning the tables.

"Is this another way of saying congratulations?" he asked.

"If you want it to be."

"Mm," Cristiano curled his lips, "We're not so different, you and I," he started.

"Is that so?"

"We both like football. And we're very good at it."

"Two things."

"Neither of us like to lose."

"Three things."

"And neither of us can have what -- or, in this case, _who_ we really want." there was no one to see him and still he grinned. It was the smile of a caged convict, moments before he pulled the grenade pin with his teeth.

"And why do you think that is." Cristiano felt himself twitch as all good humor drained from Messi's tone.

"Ah," he chided, smiling wider still, "That's where we're different. See, if you hadn't intervened, I would have gotten around or gotten over it. But even if I didn't exist -- "

"Shut up," Messi snarled, but there must have been some self-loathing in him too because he didn't hang up.

"Even if I didn't exist," Cristiano repeated, "He would never look at you, not the way you want him to, not the way he looks at his _wife_."

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other side and Cristiano waited, eager to hear the dial tone. But it didn't come, not at the moment at least. Instead, he was treated to Messi taking a deep breath, evidently calming himself down. When he spoke again, his voice was even.

"I overheard your conversation. About Ronaldo."

"Oh?"

"Why not throw on a dress and try your luck? Seems he has a thing for guys in drag."

There was a wave of obscenities Cristiano wanted to lob at the other. Instead he took a deep breath of his own and retorted with:

"At least Ronaldo knows better than to stick his nose where it doesn't belong."

"...Meaning?"

"Good luck in the next World Cup," Cristiano sneered, "Maradona is a washed-up has-been, anyone with eyes can see he's not fit to coach."

"You watch your fucking mouth."

"Or what?" He couldn't help jeering, "You'll tell your best friend's father-in-law?" He laughed for a long while at that. Messi was still on the line when he finished, rubbing tears from the corner of his eye, and Cristiano could almost see his tightly-clenched jaw and ghostly-pale fists.

"When I win the Player of the Year..." Messi started.

"You won't," Cristiano interjected.

"When I do," the other pressed, "I will be happy to accept _your_ congratulations."

"How about this?" Cristiano countered, "When _I_ win the Player of the Year, _I_ will congratulate _you_ on second prize anyways."

"Go to hell."

"Losers first."

When Messi slammed the phone down, Cristiano tasted victory. He snorted, grinning to himself, before setting the phone aside and moving to finish himself off. It was a pity he hadn't recorded the bit with Gerard; he would have given anything to cut out the end with Messi and just loop the rest. He closed his eyes and groaned in anticipation of the next awards ceremony.


	10. 2009-02-20

2009-02-20 | Cheshire, England  
 _The Ronaldo Residence @ Alderley Edge Mansion_

It was half past eight in the morning when Cristiano's phone rang. He had finished his morning run and subsequent shower and was rooting around his refridgerator for breakfast. There was a match against the Rovers the next day but it would be at Old Trafford so there wouldn't be any commuting on their part.

He raised an eyebrow when he saw the ID. He had no idea why Aguero would be calling him, especially as his son (and Maradona's grandson) had been born the day before. But he shrugged and picked it up anyways.

"Hey, Kun," he started, "Congratulations! I saw the photos, he's gonna be a handsome little thing."

But there was no answer from Aguero.

Cristiano frowned, furrowing his brows. "Kun?" he asked again, "Is everything okay?"

There was no answer. No breathing, no static, nothing. He pulled the phone away to double-check he was still connected. He was. Figuring it was a misswipe on Aguero's part, he ended the call.

He hadn't thought of marriage much less parenthood, despite his mother's nagging, but looking at the little family Aguero now had seemed to stir, well, something in him. Seeing it happen to someone else, someone even younger than him, was strange. Stranger still was the undercurrent of longing. _I want that too,_ he realized.

He was in the middle of mixing himself a protein shake when his phone rang again. Again, it was Aguero.

"Hello?" he asked, uncertain what to expect. Was someone prank-calling him from Aguero's phone, he wondered.

"It's me," the voice he had been trying to blot out said on the other side. Cristiano cursed himself for being surprised. Of course the best man would be present for the birth. Of course Messi would think this some additional perhaps bonus stage to the fucked-up game they had embroiled themselves in.

"Tell me why I shouldn't hang up," Cristiano snorted, thinking back to the award ceremony in Zurich. Messi hadn't been kidding when he said he thought he would win it. Pity, then, that the fans had more discerning taste this time around. He had given Cristiano the cold shoulder the entire evening, glaring at him outright in the men's room, and needless to say there hadn't been a repeat of the Ballon d'Or. Which was fine, Cristiano insisted to himself. It wasn't as if he was hard-pressed for willing partners who were, quite frankly, more satisfying and more easily satisfied than the Argentinian flea. He was fine. But that sure as hell didn't mean Messi could play the hot and cold game with him.

"I'm parked outside the gates."

" _What_."

"The gates to your house. Are you home?"

"Am I home?" Cristiano repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "Am I home one day before a home match you mean, what the fuck is your problem, you bastard?"

Messi kept quiet.

"Alright fine," Cristiano relented, hating his own manners, "I'll tell the guards to let you in. I guess you know my house number?"

"Yes."

"Fucking stalker..." he rolled his eyes and terminated the call. A glance at the phone showed it was two minutes past nine. Cristiano spitefully drank the protein shake down before calling security. When Messi pulled into his driveway -- in what must have been a rented Jag -- he was fully dressed, though there hadn't been enough time to properly gel his hair.

Messi... well, Messi looked like shit. There were noticeable bags underneath his eyes and there seemed to be a stagger in his step, as if a weight were pulling him down.

"Did you come straight from the hospital?" Cristiano asked, stepping aside to let the other in.

"Pretty much." Cristiano watched as Messi took his shoes off before striding into the living room and collapsing onto a couch. He followed after him.

Cristiano hadn't even sat down before Messi was making demands.

"Do you have anything to drink?"

"Water? Milk? Juice?" Cristiano tried.

"Vodka," Messi countered, still reclined against the couch, "Or whiskey."

"It's fucking nine in the morning! And I don't drink!"

"I'm not asking you if _you_ want a drink." How Messi managed to sound condescending was a miracle in itself. Cristiano snorted and considered what the headlines would be, if the reporters found out he had kicked the other out of his house. In the end, it was a combination of curiosity and schadenfreude that stayed his hand.

As it turned out, there was a bottle of unopened whiskey in his kitchen. One of the sponsors hadn't known he didn't drink, or didn't care, who knew. Either way, he took the bottle of liquor and grudgingly poured Messi a glass. He presented both bottle and glass to the other and only then did Messi push himself upright.

Cristiano sat down too. He watched Messi knock the whiskey back while sipping from his own flute of water.

"What sort of bar is this," Messi lamented. "Where the customer has to top up his own glass?"

"Do you _want_ me to punch your lights out?" Cristiano asked, feeling a vein throb on the side of his head.

"Maybe," Messi answered. The laugh he gave rattled and his shoulders shook with the effort. He drank a third glass before looking Cristiano in the eye. Either the alcohol hadn't kicked in yet or he was already long gone. His eyes were dark and his tone was downright sultry when he followed up with: "Are you offering?"

Cristiano rolled his eyes again, refusing to be baited.

"I know you have to uphold your reputation for being a dead fish in bed," he started, "But I don't think a concussion is going to affect your performance much."

Messi raised an eyebrow at that.

"Funny," he shrugged, "I seem to recall I was the one moving you along last time."

"That's -- !" Cristiano began, almost spluttering. He took a breath and forced himself to relax, continuing with, "You caught me by surprise. That's all." He watched on as Messi poured himself a third and drank that down too. He couldn't help wincing; judging from Messi's expression, he might as well have been chugging Gatorade.

As the other was pouring a _fourth_ glass -- and it wasn't even half past nine!! IN THE MORNING!! -- Cristiano tried to intervene. He leaned forward and placed his hand on Messi's.

"I think that's enough," _for a lifetime_ , he didn't bother adding.

Messi narrowed his eyes as his expression contorted. He pulled his hand back and attempted to pour. Cristiano clicked his tongue and snatched the bottle from his hand.

It was like something snapped in the other. There was enough venom in Messi's gaze to kill. Cristiano was frozen to the spot, intrigued and (shamefully) aroused. Slowly, as if he didn't want to attract Messi's gaze, he retracted his hand, taking the bottle with him. It was a futile attempt; Messi cursed and threw the glass at the fridge.

Both of them winced as it shattered.

Messi stared at the spot of contact for a long time. Cristiano debated calling Cesc and dashing to the sink to dump the rest of the whiskey. Thankfully, Messi seemed to sober up at the sight of the destruction. He retreated into himself, slumping back against the couch with a groan. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes, curling into himself as if to cry.

"Sorry about that," he said at last. "I'll pay you back. A new fridge, a new floor, whatever you want."

 _It's fine,_ Cristiano did not say. Because it wasn't about the fridge or the floor, it was about his arch-nemesis (or so the tabloids said) going out of his way to see him when he had just gone out of his way to _not_ see him and then drinking half a bottle of whiskey before ten AM, as if that would make things better.

"Why are you here?" Cristiano asked instead.

"I couldn't think of anywhere else to go."

"Bullshit. Assuming you flew into Heathrow, Cesc's place is way closer than mine."

"I flew into Manchester."

"And now I am so fucking touched." He wasn't, of course. If anything, he was still pissed. Who the fuck did Lionel Messi think he was, giving Cristiano the cold shoulder throughout the FIFA Player of the Year Award (the award which, mind you, Cristiano had fucking _swept_ ) only to call him up, seemingly on a whim, and help himself to alcohol from a collection that didn't even exist? There had to be a limit on boorishness.

"Everything's changed," Messi whispered. "Everything."

"With what? The kid?"

The other was so upset, he couldn't even say it. He just nodded his head, like the child existing was a crime. Cristiano couldn't have rolled his eyes any harder.

"Lemme guess why you didn't go crying to Gerard or Cesc," he said, crossing his arms and remembering the talking-to Gerard had given when Athletico had wiped the floor with Barcelona, "Because both of them would have told you to suck it up and grow up, am I right?"

Messi said nothing, but his silence was concession enough.

"Well they're right," Cristiano insisted. "You're what? Twenty-one, going on twenty-two? What the fuck did you expect, that he would live his whole life in your shadow?"

"And yet you expect me to live _my_ whole life in _your_ shadow," Messi retorted.

"That's different," Cristiano dismissed, carelessly waving his hand.

"How is it different?"

"We're competitors. One of us has got to be the best. Of course it's going to be me." He saw Messi's shoulders shake in muffled amusement and awarded himself a point. "Besides," he continued, "It's not like that between us."

"Like what?"

"Like the two of you."

"No," Messi agreed, pushing himself up once more. "It's not like that and it never will be." He looked at Cristiano and smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes.

Messi's gaze trailed down and Cristiano refused to follow. He knew what the other was looking at and he wasn't some wide-eyed teenager. So there was a tent in his shorts, big deal. Except then Messi's smile widened just a fraction, shifting so that it was obvious he knew, and Cristiano wanted to ignore his hard-on and order the other out.

 _He_ had just won the Champion's League, the Ballon d'Or, the Club World Cup, AND the Player of the Year -- and probably a dozen other awards he couldn't think up off the top of his head. What had Messi won? What _could_ Messi win, with him around?

He didn't though. At that point, it was more a matter of _couldn't_. Because Messi was standing up and walking over and kneeling before him and Cristiano found himself overwhelmed at the familiarity of the scene. It didn't matter that Messi looked like hell warmed over, not when his cock still remembered the inside of his hot wet mouth.

And now Messi was seated between his legs and there was a challenge, clear as day, written on his eyes.

And still, Cristiano needed to know.

"Why did you come _here_?" he asked again, and what he meant was: why did you come to _me_?

Messi reached up, stroking his cheek and then thumbing at Cristiano's earring. He chuckled, low and dark, and the sound brought forth a keening warmness in Cristiano's chest.

"I'm ready to give my congratulations, I suppose," he whispered, "If you'll still accept them, that is."

This answer too was bullshit but Cristiano was too far gone to care. He grabbed Messi by the shoulders and pulled him up, feeling a spark of irritation at his nonplussed expression, even as he switched their positions in an instant so that he was pressing the other up against the couch.

"No marks," Messi warned, as Cristiano pressed his mouth against his neck. Cristiano bit down once and Messi twisted at his hair in response. Cristiano pulled away, glaring, only to find Messi glaring right back.

"No marks," the other repeated.

"Fine," Cristiano spat.

Fucking Messi was unlike fucking anyone else. Other people were either into affectionate gestures or at least big on the whole wham bam thank you ma'am sort of sex. But Messi was slow and practiced, coiled muscle from start to finish, and it didn't matter how deep Cristiano curled his finger, didn't matter how painstakingly he opened him up, his expression remained the same.

Cristiano knew he was a good lover. No one had ever complained about him being lazy in the bedroom, that was for sure. But frustratingly enough, even when he gave as good as it got, Messi didn't react. Not the way he was supposed to, at least.

"You're not going to ask me if it's in yet, are you?" Cristiano hissed as he bottomed out. Even though Messi was properly slicked up this time and even though Cristiano swore he had hit his fucking prostate a dozen times, he looked, well, the same as he had when he sunk himself on Cristiano's cock with absolutely no prep.

"No," Messi answered, in enough control to be able to raise an eyebrow. "I can feel you. Can you feel me?"

It was an innocuous question -- or it should have been. But at the moment, Cristiano could feel nothing but him and he groaned, burying his head in the other man's shoulder and working on rolling his hips. He was considerate enough not to bite him, regardless of how much he thought Messi deserving of it, and merely pressed open-mouthed kisses against the other's collarbone and shoulder.

And then Messi's fingers were buried in his hair and Messi was tugging his head up.

"I asked you a question."

"What?" Cristiano said, stilling his hips.

"Can you feel me?"

"Of-fucking-course," with a violent shake he freed himself and buried his head anew. "You are so tight, fuck," he muttered. Instead of answering, Messi clenched down on him, forcing another groan from Cristiano. In a haze, he reached between the two of them, wrapping his hand about Messi's cock. It was hard and leaking this time at least, though he sure wouldn't have known it looking at the other's expression.

Cristiano stilled his own thrusts then, concentrating on getting the other off. He pulled back to look at Messi's face: his eyes were squeezed shut and there was a single drop of sweat making its way down his brow. Cristiano grinned at the sight, picking up his pace. Soon enough, Messi was biting at his bottom lip. Messi came with a stifled grunt, spilling between the two of them and squeezing so beautifully against Cristiano's cock, it only took a couple more jerks before Cristiano reached climax himself.

As soon as he caught his breath he pulled out. With anyone else, there would have been some aftermath of euphoria. Messi's eyes were closed and his breathing remained erratic but he didn't look satisfied much less euphoric. Cristiano kept himself from pouting, moving away and glancing at the clock. It was ten past ten.

After he had cleaned himself up and gotten dressed, his phone beeped. There was a text from Ryan; there would be practice in an hour's time. It wasn't unusual and he found himself relieved at the excuse to leave. He hurried through his interrupted morning routine, spending less time than usual fixing up his hair. When he returned to the living room, Messi was still sprawled out on the couch, the very image of debauched. Cristiano concentrated on the fridge, refusing to be aroused.

"So," he awkwardly started, when he was putting on his trainers in the hallway, "I've got practice with the team. Let yourself out, will you?"

Messi gave no response. Cristiano shook his head, wondering why he bothered, before heading out the door.

When he came back from practice, the Jaguar was gone and Messi as well. What was more surprising however, was the brand-new refridgerator and sparkling-clean floor. Cristiano cautiously padded over to the new appliance. It was cheerfully humming away as if it had been there from the start.

He pulled the door open, uncertain what to expect.

And then he was hunched over, laughing at the sight, because, in addition to transposing everything from the old fridge Messi (or whoever he had ordered to replace the old one) had placed a bottle of tequila next to the milk.


	11. 2009-04-01

2009-04-01 | London, England  
 _London Heathrow Airport_

It started yesterday afternoon. Cristiano had just gotten back from Portugal, having played against Sweden to an unsatisfactory 0-0 draw. There was a League match on Saturday and United was awash with nervousness as the media loudly speculated over the possibility of a third loss in a row.

As he was lounging in bed, his phone buzzed. It was a text from Cesc, of all people.

 _Awww, cheer up already_ , the SMS said, apropos of nothing. Cristiano scowled and felt it wasn't worth a reply.

 _Everyone has off-days_ , the next message read. Because Cesc was nothing if not insistent.

I'm not everyone, Cristiano kept from saying. Instead he rolled his eyes and grudgingly typed back: _I'm fine, asshole. Worry about your own team why don't you._

 _Which one?_ Cesc shot back. There was a teasing emoticon pasted on the end. Before Cristiano could pick one (or maybe both), he added: _Sure as hell can't be Spain. Our group is filled with shitters._

And then, before Cristiano could be baited into praising the national teams of Estonia or Armenia, he added: _Didja watch it?_

_I was playing my own match._

_Géri is :( because you didn't congratulate him on his goal._

Cristiano raised his eyebrows. He hadn't bothered recording the match, figuring a win against Turkey was nothing unusual, but to know _Gerard_ had scored the only goal? He switched over to Gerard, quickly typing out: _Cesc told me about your goal. Congrats._

Gerard replied within seconds.

 _Thanks,_ he said. _Still can't believe they let me play for the senior squad_.

 _Are you with Cesc?_ Cristiano asked, right as Cesc sent him another text. Well, a slew of texts.

_Good job. / He's grinning now. / Géri is such a cutie. / Are you ignoring me? / Crissssss don't ignore meeeeeee._

He somehow wasted two hours bantering back and forth with the two of them. Of course they had gone back to Cesc' mother's villa after their game against Turkey, nevermind that both of their club teams were playing on the weekend.

Cesc was the one who suggested it first. It was an innocent _Are you doing anything tomorrow night?_ sort of question. Right as Cristiano was about to answer, he added, _Wait, not tomorrow night. / The night after._

 _Not really_ , he wrote back. _Why?_

 _Cool._ was all Cesc said. _See you then!_ He ended their chat with a dozen kissy emoticons, Cristiano shook his head, chuckling, and set his phone aside.

-

2009-04-02 | Cheshire, England  
 _The Ronaldo Residence @ Alderley Edge Mansion ___

__Following two days of off-pitch training, Gerard's ringtone rang out at a quarter past eight._ _

__"Hey we're outside," Gerard said, "Tell the guard at the front to let us in!"_ _

__"Alright, alright." There was just enough time between calling the guard and Cesc' Maserati pulling up for Cristiano to change out of his post-training ensemble. He stood in the front door and laughed at the sight of them. Cesc and Gerard were at the front of the convertible, blasting Catalan pop with the top down, and Messi was tucked in the back seat, squeezed between what must have been at least three dozen eight-packs of beer._ _

__"What is this?" he asked, affecting outrage at the scene before him, "The Three Musketeers?"_ _

__"O fair maiden!" Cesc answered, dropping to one knee and grabbing Cristiano's hand. He was grinning from ear-to-ear, "We have brought bottles of ale and courtly games from the faraway land of London, won't you please let us rest a night at your castle?"_ _

__Cristiano rolled his eyes at the other's theatrics but played along all the same._ _

__"My eyes do not deceive me," he answered, "You are gentle men indeed. Please, rest your spirits in my humble abode, there is much fun to be had within."_ _

__"Eeeh, that kinda ruins it," Cesc complained, standing up and kissing Cristiano's cheek. "We're supposed to be knights from Camelot, not soldiers looking for a whore."_ _

__"Guys, the beer's getting warm," Gerard whined._ _

__"Well come in, come in," Cristiano gestured for the three of them to enter. He raised an eyebrow at Messi, or specifically the black case he was carrying. "That's not a bomb, is it?"_ _

__"It's a Playstation."_ _

__"A what?"_ _

__"For FIFA."_ _

__"What?"_ _

__"Don't bother with him Leo," Gerard interjected, heading back out for the rest of the beer, "He tries to keep up with the times, but he's an old man at heart."_ _

__"I don't want to hear this from the guy that needed to be spoonfed the new iPhone!" Cristiano retorted._ _

__"iPhone, shmyphone," Cesc snorted, "C'mere and help me set up! Leo, bring the PS around!"_ _

__It was like the set-up to a joke: how many pro footballers does it take to connect a game console to a television? It took the four of them half an hour, though only Gerard and Leo knew what they were doing which meant of course that Cristiano and Cesc got into a shouting match as to whether the red cable was supposed to be connected to the white or the yellow port. As it turned out, there was a red connection port, but no matter what combination of cables and connections they tried, they couldn't get the sound to work._ _

__"Whatever," Cesc declared at ten minutes to nine. "It's not like we need sound. C'mon, c'mon, let's play!"_ _

__"Leo's on my team!" Gerard called._ _

__"Okay, fine," Cesc sighed, scooting over and patting the space next to him, "C'mon Cris, let's kick their culé asses!"_ _

__It was easier said than done, especially since Cristiano had little to no experience playing video games, least of all football games. He vaguely recalled Messi and Aguero playing some handheld in Zurich the year before but had no interest in it himself._ _

__"Christ," Cesc whistled at the end of the first match, "You are really bad at this. Like, really, really bad."_ _

__"Whatever," Cris rolled eyes, "It's just some dumb game."_ _

__"Okay that's it," Cesc declared, "Let's switch partners."_ _

__"I see nothing wrong with this set-up," Gerard whined._ _

__(Of course Messi said nothing at all, concentrated entirely on the game.)_ _

__It ended up being Cesc and Gerard against Messi, with Cristiano as dead weight. He had to admit, it was a surprise to see the three of them so worked up over a game (a game that _wasn't_ football, he meant) and further amazed that they could all be so, well, normal in each other's company. Gerard presumably hadn't remembered that long-distance call to Yokohama and he supposed Messi wasn't the type to kiss and tell. But it was still oddly touching, that Cesc would hang out with him even after Gerard had left United._ _

__As Cristiano was musing to himself, he inadvertently allowed five goals to slip by. At the end of the match, Messi turned to him, disgruntlement written all over his features._ _

__"...What?" Cristiano asked._ _

__"You are REALLY bad at this," Messi said._ _

__"I told you so!" - Cesc, of course._ _

__"Okay, okay, let's switch again," Gerard conceded. "Cesc, you're with Leo this time, okay?"_ _

__"Finally!" Cesc cheered as the four of them rearranged themselves._ _

__Needless to say, it didn't matter that Gerard and he were on the same team, Cristiano played as badly as he had before. Gerard was patient though, actually giving him tips (like having the bulk of the defenders stay behind the penalty line -- ridiculous in a real match but a decent strategy for a video game) and not cursing (Cesc) or glaring (Messi) when Cristiano missed a pass._ _

__"Okay that does it," Cesc sighed, when he and Messi finished twenty points up, "This isn't fun. Let's go back to two player."_ _

__"Oh thank god," Messi immediately answered._ _

__Cristiano retreated to the kitchen to top up his water glass. Gerard followed him in._ _

__"You drink tequila now?" Gerard asked, raising an eyebrow at the bottle in his fridge. It was still where Messi had left it, next to the carton of milk._ _

__"Uh," Cristiano intelligently said._ _

__"Uh?" the other man repeated._ _

__"It's not mine. Someone left it behind."_ _

__Gerard picked up, examining the label. "It's not even opened," he said._ _

__"You want some?" Cristiano offered, a little too eager to distract the other from asking _who_ would have left such a drink behind. On one hand, he wasn't exactly ashamed of... whatever the hell he and Messi had going on. And on the other hand, he felt that if anyone were to break the news to Gerard, it ought to be Messi, since they were childhood friends on the same footbal team and all._ _

__"Sure," Gerard shrugged, "Why not?"_ _

__Cristiano closed the fridge and Gerard helped himself to three shot glasses. When they returned to the living room, Messi and Cesc were still embroiled in their (video) football match._ _

__"Do you want to play?" Cristiano asked as they sat to the side with their eyes trained on the screen._ _

__"Nah, it's fine," Gerard waved his free hand, gulping down a shot of the tequila. "Ooh," he winced, "This is pretty good stuff."_ _

__"Géri," Messi said._ _

__"Mmh?"_ _

__Messi tilted his chin a little, though he kept his eyes on the game. Gerard immediately understood, pouring his friend a shot. And then Cesc took notice and wanted a shot as well and Cristiano felt himself blending into the background -- ridiculous, considering he was the one playing host._ _

__Was Messi doing this on purpose? It was impossible to tell. Just like it was impossible to distinguish whether he was smirking because he had won the match or because he had reminded Cristiano that he was an outsider in their friend group or because he was remembering how the tequila got into Cristiano's fridge in the first place._ _

__Cristiano swallowed, willing his own memories of that night away._ _

__"Are they always like this?" Cristiano asked, not even bothering to whisper._ _

__"For as long as I've known them, yeah," Gerard laughed, "It's the main reason I'm such a mature and responsible adult, in fact."_ _

__-_ _

__At half past ten, the bottle of tequila was finished and it was clear the three of them were staying for the night. About half an hour after that, and it was clear none of them would be making it out of the living room. Cristiano made a fuss about Spanish houseguests but he went to the guest bedrooms and bundled up enough pillows and blankets._ _

__As he went back downstairs, he felt the difference in their ages for the first time, seeing the three of them laid on their backs and stomachs with the Playstation still flickering._ _

__He was reminded of how long two years could be in the world of sports. Two years ago, Ronaldinho was an untouchable god, and now look at where he was. Five years ago was Ronaldo's time; twenty years ago was Maradona's. And so on and so forth. He pushed those thoughts from his mind, determined to concentrate on the next League match. United was lucky to be up so much it didn't matter that they had lost their past two matches. On the other hand, if Liverpool beat Fulham on Saturday (entirely possible) then they would be at the top of the league._ _

__He turned off the television and went to throw blankets on the three of them, lest the English winter freeze their muscles before the championship league. All their teams were still in and, assuming United beat Porto (practically a given) and Arsenal beat Villarreal, he and Cesc would face off in the semifinals._ _

__Gerard made a sniffling noise when Cristiano placed the blanket over him whereas Cesc rolled to his side. In contrast to the other two who were snoring and drooling respectively, Messi was as still and quiet as ever. When Cristiano as last moved to drape a blanket over him, he wasn't even surprised when Messi's eyes flashed open._ _

__They stared at one another for what seemed like ages. In the silence, the humming from the fridge was enough to make his head throb._ _

__He was the first to blink but it was Messi who looked away. Cristiano followed his gaze as it settled on the other two._ _

__Messi stood up. The blanket that had been meant for him slipped from Cristiano's grasp, pooling onto the floor. Without making a sound, Messi moved to the washroom. Cristiano followed him in and then locked the door._ _

__As soon as the lock turned, Messi had him pressed up against the door, biting into his own fist as he pulled down Cristiano's slacks and briefs, lavishing his (hard once more) cock with attention. Cristiano had one hand in his mouth and another clutched at the edge of the sink, acutely aware of how close they were to the others. Fuck, if they flushed the toilet or even turned on the tap..._ _

__Right as he was on the cusp of coming, Messi pulled away. The wet sounds his mouth made were erotic past the point of sin. He tilted his head up, making eye contact with Cristiano. His mouth was turned up at the corners however and Cristiano wanted to punch him._ _

__He took a deep breath, extracting his hand from his mouth before curling and uncurling his fist. He forced the warring spots of white and red to bleed away from his vision and gestured at Messi to stand. The other did so wordlessly. Then he stepped out of his slacks and took Messi by the hand, guiding him into the shower stall. Messi turned to face the wall, putting both hands against the cool marble as a pre-emptive brace, all without prompting._ _

__Cristiano unzipped his slacks, pushing the other man's pants and briefs down. Then he snaked his hand to curl about Messi's erection, pumping at a slow and steady pace. With his other hand, he held onto Messi's hip, digging in his fingers -- hard enough to hurt, soft enough that there wouldn't be bruises. He watched Messi's shoulders go up and then down. Watched as Messi curled his head into his chest. The other was no doubt biting down on his bottom lip, maybe even gritting his teeth, and Cristiano could have gotten drunk from the sight alone._ _

__When Messi began to tremble with wordless pleasure, Cristiano removed his hands. At once, the other turned to him, outrage written plainly on his face._ _

__"Patience," Cristiano murmured, pressing a finger to his lips. He ducked out of the stall and squirted a copious amount of lotion into his hands. Then he went back in, slicking himself up before sliding two fingers into the other and scissoring him open. At that point, Messi had pressed his forehead against the wall. Cristiano could hear his breathing: muted gasps in staccato._ _

__When he himself was shaking with anticipation, he withdrew his fingers and got ahold of the other man's hips. Then he lined himself up and pushed in, hissing at the familiar tightness. He opened his eyes when their thighs touched and saw Messi had one hand in his mouth and the other was clawing uselessly up against the tile._ _

__A part of him wanted to drag it out indefinitely. Wanted to make Messi beg for it. But it was late, he didn't want to get caught, _and_ he had practice the next day. So he picked up the pace and wrapped his right hand around Messi's cock once more, pumping him in tandem with his thrusts._ _

__In and out and in and out --_ _

__It didn't take long for Messi to come, spilling into Cristiano's hand and dripping onto the tiles. A stifled moan escaped his lips and he sank to his knees. Cristiano followed, still buried to the hilt, and with a couple more thrusts, he brought himself to climax too._ _

__Like usual, he pulled out as soon as he caught his breath. Then he slipped out of the shower and grabbed a roll of toilet paper, tossing it over to Messi, who was conscious enough (this time) to catch it, though there was a faraway look in his eyes. They cleaned themselves in silence and it was only when they were fully dressed and Cristiano was unlocking the door that Messi grabbed him by the wrist._ _

__"Géri misses you."_ _

__A year ago, Cristiano would have leapt at those words. Hell, even now, they made his heart skip a beat. But he could put two and two together just as well as anyone else; he narrowed his eyes at the other, knowing full well why -- and _how_ \-- Lionel Messi would know such a thing._ _

__"So give him back then."_ _

__"I can't do that."_ _

__Cristiano's glare intensified before he wrenched his wrist out of the other's grasp, moving to the open the door. Messi stopped him a second time, this time by grabbing his other hand._ _

__"Come to Barcelona. You'll like it. More than Manchester, that's for certain."_ _

__"Is that what this is about?" Cristiano hissed, gesturing to the living room. And what he meant was: these overtures of friendship, this farce of camaraderie -- do you think my feelings for Gerard are enough to lure me to your club?_ _

__Messi ignored the implications. His gaze was infuriatingly calm._ _

__At last, he shrugged, releasing Cristiano's wrist._ _

__"Maybe, maybe not," he said, like that was any sort of satisfactory answer._ _

__"Fuck off," Cristiano snarled, wrenching open the door and making a beeline for his room. He threw himself onto the bed and didn't even bother taking off his clothes, turning the lights off and sinking into a deep and dreamless slumber._ _

__-_ _

__When he woke in the morning and came down the stairs, he saw Gerard was already awake while Cesc and Messi were still curled up beneath their respective blankets. The two of them went for a quick jog and when they got back, Cesc had rustled up a Catalan breakfast -- a guaranteed cure for hangovers, he insisted. Messi was up as well, seated blearily at the head of the table with a spoon in each hand._ _

__They chatted as they ate, friendly ribbing over league matches as well as the knock-out stages in the Champion's League._ _

__And then it was time for Cesc to send the other two back to the airport, back to Barcelona._ _

__Messi, surprisingly, chose to hang back with Cristiano for a bit._ _

__"What is it?" Cristiano prompted._ _

__"Don't listen to the papers," The other replied, "They don't know anything."_ _

__"Have you told them something?" Cristiano demanded, immediately thinking the worst._ _

__Messi snorted. "I was talking about the next League match."_ _

__"...Oh."_ _

__"Don't let it get to you. Losing a match means nothing."_ _

__"It's not _just_ a match," Cristiano ground out, "It would be the third loss -- in a row."_ _

__"Don't let it get to you. You'll be fine regardless."_ _

__"Of course I'll be fine regardless," Cristiano insisted, "Because I'll win."_ _

__"Even if you don't win," Messi repeated, smiling._ _

__"Fuck off," Cristiano grumbled, shoving him on the shoulder._ _

__Cesc, who was already in the driver's seat, honked at them._ _

__"Any day now, ladies!" he shouted. Messi shoved his hands into his pockets and then darted off, leaving Cristiano to watch the three of them depart from his front door._ _

__When they drove past the gates, he went back inside and closed the door. Then he took a deep breath and let it out, forcing himself to concentrate. First training, then the match against Aston Villa, and then the quarterfinals of the Champion's League._ _


	12. 2009-05-07

2009-05-07 | Madrid, Spain  
 _Aguero Residence @ La Moraleja_

It was half past ten when Cristiano parked his rental car on the curb. There must have been eight cars in the driveway; it was a wonder how they were going to get out. As he extracted himself and his offerings from the car, he muttered curses about the traffic in the capital as well as the leering smile of creditors, all eager to take a slice of _his_ pie.

"Sorry I'm late," he apologized as soon as Aguero opened the door.

"Oh no," Aguero stammered, still a little awed. They awkwardly embraced and then he stepped back, scratching his neck. "I only invited you because the news said you'd be in Madrid but I know you're busy so..." he shook his head, smiling, "Thanks for coming."

"Thanks for having me. Here's, uh," Cristiano fumbled with his gifts, "A bottle of wine and a football. Er, for the kid."

Aguero's eyes widened and he broke out in a thousand-watt smile.

"Thanks so much," he beamed, "Benja'll love it, I'm sure.   
Say, you haven't met him yet, have you?"

"No, but -- " Cristiano started.

"What?" Aguero raised an eyebrow, "Do you not like kids?" And then, before Cristiano could even reply, "It's fine if you don't but you'll love him, I swear. He's the cutest little thing."

"It's ten o'clock," Cristiano deadpanned, swallowing his own surprise at how quickly Aguero had become a father. "Shouldn't he be sleeping?"

"C'mon, just a peek," Aguero pressed. He set the wine and football aside and grabbed Cristiano's wrist, dragging him upstairs via the back stairs. They were met with an exasperated Gianinna Maradona, who flushed upon placing Cristiano and then put her hands on her hips.

"Kun!" she chastised, "Didn't we say the guests would stay downstairs?"

"I just want to show Cristiano Benja," Kun whined.

"And I _just_ got him to go back to sleep!"

"It's really alright," Cristiano insisted.

"No it's not!" Kun retorted, "Baby, please," he took his wife's hands and gave her his most convincing puppy dog look, "Would you dare deprive the best footballer in the world of our son's presence? What would Papi say about that?"

Gianinna laughed, shaking her head.

"Alright," she relented, as Aguero gave a (quiet) cheer and kissed her on the cheek, "But only for a minute. And if you wake him up..."

"Okay, okay," Aguero flashed a grin and a thumbs-up at Cristiano, "Let's go!"

"Sorry to intrude," Cristiano whispered, ducking his head.

"Don't be," Gianinna smiled, "I know how he's like. You probably didn't want to see Benja in the first place." And then she waved the two of them into the baby's room and Cristiano was left wondering when he managed to give off the impression he didn't like children.

It was a spacious but sparsely-decorated room. The wall was covered with jerseys and there was a little mobile of World Cup footballs slowly circling over the crib at the center. It was with theatrical flourish that Aguero presented his sleeping son, grinning from ear-to-ear as he gestured at the infant.

"Look at him," he cooed, "Isn't he the sweetest little thing?"

Paternal feelings Cristiano didn't even know he had were stirred at the sight of the child. It -- he -- was so small. He could have easily fit in both his hands. Cristiano reached out, stopping himself in the nick of time, right as his hand hovered near the baby's hair.

"May I?" he asked.

"Of course," Aguero beamed. "Go ahead."

With a gentleness he hadn't used in years, he slowly stroked the child's soft dark curls.

"He's beautiful," Cristiano whispered. And all of a sudden he wanted nothing more than to have a son of his own.

"I know," Aguero smiled and it was even more sappy than before. He reached out too, gently flicking his son on the nose and --

Benjamin Aguero Maradona opened his eyes and saw two dark shadows looming over his crib. He understandably began to cry.

"Oh shit," Aguero hissed, right as Gianinna stormed in.

"What have you -- " she started.

"Love you, thank you, bye!" Aguero shot out, giving her a quick peck before dragging Cristiano out and closing the door behind them. "Whew!" he said when they were out in the hallway, "Nina's absolutely fantastic, I don't know what I'd do without her, you know?"

Cristiano numbly nodded as he followed the other down the stairs, trying to ignore the lump of want that had settled in his throat.

And then they were turning left at the base of the stairs and Aguero was ushering him through the entrance hall and into the ballroom slash living room. The impromptu party which was half belated baby shower and half anticipation for the final of the Champion's League, had long since winded down and there were less than a dozen players scattered throughout the room. Cristiano noted the hush that fell over them when he made his entrance without his usual slant of smugness, still in awe of the child. Most of the attendees were from Athletico but there were a couple Madridistas too. Oh, and the three Musketeers, of course.

Cesc -- the main reason Cristiano had ended his dinner plans early -- stood up as soon as they walked in. He narrowed his eyes at the sight of them, at the sight of Cristiano in particular. Cristiano maintained eye contact, though he was aware of the panicked gestures Aguero was making, most likely to Messi and Gerard.

"I'm going home," Cesc said. As he made for the front door, with Gerard worriedly trailing behind him, he made sure to shove his shoulder against Cristiano's as he passed by. Cristiano wrinkled his nose; the other must have drunk a fair amount in the hours prior.

"Sorry about that," Gerard winced, "Give him some time, will you?"

"You're driving?" Cristiano demanded.

"Of course. Someone's got to be the -- shit, he's getting into the driver's seat. Gotta run, see you at the final," Gerard looped an arm about his shoulders in a quick hug before hurrying after the Arsenal player.

"Sorry about that," Aguero repeated, snapping Cristiano out of his daze and forcing himself to look at the living room once more. "You know how it is."

Cristiano nodded even though it was a lie.

As Aguero moved to introduce him to the remaining guests -- all of whom he had seen play and all of whom had seen him play -- he thoughts on the matter coalesced into a more definable entity. He understood the frustration of losing, hell, United had lost against Arsenal in November. He didn't even have his ankle as an excuse, he had played his best then and Arsenal had somehow managed to outplay them. What was particularly frustrating was that, for him (and no doubt the rest of the team), it felt like the worse team had won. It felt like that whenever they weren't the ones winning. But then, hadn't he just been declared the best footballer _in the world_?

Winning came to him as naturally as the sport itself. As soon as his feet touched the pitch, he was filled with a certainty that he would score and that his team would win. Sure, it might have been the same for everyone, but they couldn't be _as_ certain because they weren't the best.

Basically, his logic boiled down to: it was fine for him to ignore Cesc' calls for months following a lost match because Cesc was a worse player than him and Arsenal a worse team and United should have therefore won that round. Whereas it was not acceptable for Cesc to shut him out because of an equivalent (if not more humiliating) loss because _their_ victory was rightfully earned.

It made sense. Then, at least.

Cristiano kept to himself as he was mildly winded from the five-course dinner and then frantic rush-hour drive. And okay fine, both Cesc and Gerard had left which meant the only person he actually knew was Messi and Messi was of course squashed between three other Argentines (two from Athletico and one from Real) and he hadn't once looked Cristiano's way after Cesc' departure. Aguero, being the host, took it upon himself to chat a bit and Cristiano found himself asking the other about married life and fatherhood. Seeing Benjamin made him all the more curious and he was especially interested in how Aguero juggled between his football family and his, well, home family.

As a newly-made father of less than three months, Aguero was all smiles. He spoke of how amazing it was to be a father and how it seemed like he had lived without purpose in the years before. It wasn't like he was shouting at the top of his lungs, though admittedly his voice carried over better than most. As soon as Aguero started waxing poetic about the parent-child bond, Cristiano saw Messi swivel his head towards them. The sharpness in his gaze could have bled a hawk. Aguero didn't notice, continuing to monologue, and Messi turned away just as quickly so that Cristiano was left with sweat in his palms and a lump in his throat.

At eleven, Gianinna -- still glowing with either rage or motherhood -- descended from the main staircase, gliding over to Aguero and kissing him on the cheek. The Athletico striker blushed bright red though he kissed in her return and there was friendly joking and laughter all around. Cristiano darted a glance at Messi and was mildly disappointed to see the other with a pointedly calm expression. And then Aguero was announcing that it was late, because they needed to get some rest before the baby started bawling in three hours, and like that, the lot of them made their way out.

Aguero pulled him aside as he was leaving with the rest of them.

"Hey, Cris, this is kind of awkward to ask, but do you mind driving Leo to the train station?"

Cristiano blinked once before understanding dawned.

"He came with Cesc and Gerard."

"Yup. And now they've left. I already asked if he wants to spend the night but Guardiola wants him practicing tomorrow so..."

"Yeah," Cristiano answered, forcing up a smile, "Sure thing. I'll drive him."

"Great, thanks," Aguero's shoulders slumped in relief and he leaned over to hug Cristiano.

"Oy Leo!" he called, "I found you a ride!"

It was a good thing Cristiano had parked his car on the curb rather than the driveway. The night was still young and someone -- who was already plenty drunk -- loudly exclaimed they should take the party to a club. Cristiano shook his head at the sight of them: the United players knew better than to stay up late during the season. Even the appearance of a hangover at practice, or worse, during the real thing, and you could kiss your regular appearances goodbye.

As soon as he had started the engine, Messi reached over, lightly touching the top of Cristiano's.

"Take me to your hotel," he said.

Cristiano bit his bottom lip, considering. Messi sensed his reluctance and applied pressure to his touch.

"Alright," he relented. "Let's go."

They sat in silence for the entirety of the drive back. Indeed, there were no words exchanged even after they snuck in through the service door and Cristiano used his keycard to access the penthouse elevator. He unlocked his room and let the other in, bolting the door and drawing the curtains. He poured both of them sparkling water from the minibar before sitting down to take his shoes off.

He watched Messi undress for a while, meticulously shedding his clothes and folding them in a neat little pile to the side, before a thought occurred to him. Aguero had singled him out when Messi needed a ride back, even though there were other Argentinian players with cars at the party.

"Did you tell him?" he asked, when Messi was fully naked and sitting on the bed.

"Who?"

"Kun."

Messi made the same face he always made when Cristiano used the nickname. "Don't call him that," he ordered. "And get over here."

"One sec," Cristiano murmured, ducking into the bathroom to grab the lube. Messi saw it and rolled his eyes, the nerve of him, but Cristiano ignored him and got on the bed as well. Messi raised an eyebrow at their disparate states of dress but said nothing about it.

"You didn't answer my question," Cristiano murmured after he was three fingers deep.

"What did I tell Kun?"

"About this," he gestured between them. He couldn't choke out _about us_.

Messi spread his legs a little wider, grinding up against Cristiano's hand.

"Would it matter if I did?" he countered.

Cristiano's nostrils flared. "I'd like some heads-up at least, before it's plastered over the front page of The Sun." And then when Messi's brows furrowed, momentarily confused, he clarified with: "The papers."

"The papers are garbage," Messi snorted, "The men who write them wouldn't be able to score off an unguarded goal."

"Still," Cristiano ground out, twisting his fingers for emphasis. He liked how Messi had to stifle a gasp.

"No," Messi finally answered, "Surprising though it may be, we have other things to talk about." His breath hitched when Cristiano withdrew his fingers and he shifted slightly so that his ass was pressed obscenely against Cristiano's bulge.

"Come on," Messi prompted, when Cristiano drank in the sight for a second too long.

He obliged, as he always did, freeing his cock and slicking it up before pushing himself in bit by bit. He had hoped, since there wasn't the fear of Gerard or Cesc stumbling in on them this time, that they might draw it out or at least take things slower. Messi showed he had no such inclinations, wrapping his legs around Cristiano's midsection and drawing him closer still.

And then Messi had the gall to roll his eyes, as if being fucked by the best footballer in the world was a bore.

"Now what?" Cristiano demanded. Messi had grabbed onto his hand and guided it to his sternum.

"Press here, with your thumb," Messi murmured.

He did so.

"Harder," Messi demanded.

He pressed down harder and was rewarded with a flutter of eyes as Messi clenched hard on his cock. Cristiano swore at the pressure, canting his hips, and Messi tilted his head back so that his neck was bared for all to see.

Except they had a rule. No marks.

And so Cristiano ignored the stretch of pale skin and concentrated on maintaining his pressure. It took a couple tries before he got the hang of it. Messi came with a proper moan this time, spilling between the two of them. He hadn't even needed Cristiano to jerk him off.

Cristiano moved his hand so that it rested on Messi's hip. Then he dug his fingers in and began to truly fuck into him. Soon enough, he was curling over Messi and panting harshly against the sheets. When he could feel his extremeties again, he closed his eyes and counted to ten before sliding out and rolling over. He watched, mesmerized, as Messi rubbed at the spot where Cristiano had pressed down on, and then smiled knowingly.

"You are so fucked up," Cristiano sighed.

"Yet here you are," Messi answered, arching an eyebrow. He pushed himself off the bed and went into the bathroom. Cristiano closed his eyes, concentrating on the pitter-patter of the shower. He had almost drifted to sleep when the bathroom door opened again and Messi stepped out.

"I used all the towels," he remarked.

"I don't care," Cristiano groaned. He cracked open an eye to watch the other dress himself. He was sure his own button-up shirt would be sporting come stains in the morning. "Do you want me to drive you to the station?" he offered.

"No," Messi shook his head, reaching for the glass of water and downing it. "I'll get a cab. There'll be no news that way."

"Okay."

Messi was polite enough to turn off the lights before leaving. In the resultant darkness, Cristiano realized they had not once spoken of the elephant in the room. No matter, he told himself. United had won fair and square; Barcelona had clawed their way to a draw with the league's most biased referee.

He could still see the bright clear path. And it still led to the throne.


	13. 2009-05-27

2009-05-27 | Rome, Italy  
 _UEFA Champion's League 2008-2009 Finals @ Stadio Olimpico_

Right as the whistle that announced the end of the match blew, Cristiano was reminded of what Gerard had said the night of the Olympic finals.

_Don't say I didn't warn you!_

In football, as in all things, sometimes the better team lost.

This was not one of those cases.

The weather had been decent, the stadium excellent (as always). The referee was competent and he himself had been in peak condition. The rest of the team had been in similarly high spirits and all of the ones who had been there the year before (which was more than half the team, frankly speaking) assumed that it would be comparable to the semifinals of '08.

Yet United had been outplayed. _He_ had been outplayed. It didn't matter that they had the ball roughly the same amount of time, when there was no way for him to score and no chances given to pass to someone who could.

With the deafening cheers that swelled to fill the stadium, Cristiano felt his mind slow to a stagger. What was it that set the current Barcelona apart? How were they able to score _two_ goals off of them so that even if United was awarded five minutes more, there'd be no way to force the game into penalties? Was it Guardiola? Puyol? Busquets? Gerard? They were the only changes to the team. And yeah, they were good, the team was better, but was it _so much_ better?

As if on cue, Lionel Messi appeared before him. He was shimmering with sweat and there was a proud flush bleeding from his cheeks to his neck. He was smart enough not to try to soften the blow for Cristiano, wordlessly sticking his hand out.

Cristiano took it, staring at the contrast in their skin tones, and they shook firmly. Messi smiled at him and it wasn't the caustic (and at times, outright venomous) smile of their illicit meetings. No, this was the smile of a champion. A thousand cameras flashed around them and Cristiano was certain that come morning, there would be dozens of ill-informed articles and columns written about the encounter. In that moment, he realized what he had already known: the one-two two-one face-off in Paris and then Zurich was not a one-off thing. The loaded questions and absurd comparisons were just the beginning.

"Good game," he made himself say. Messi's eyes widened. He held onto Cristiano's hand longer than necessary and looked to be on the cusp of saying something. Cristiano didn't want to hear it. He pulled his hand away and walked back to his team, distinctly aware Messi's gaze was still on him.

Ferguson looked like he felt. In reality, there wasn't a player on the team that didn't look like he felt. He didn't want to be here. Not now. Not like this.

It was late in the night and it had been a hard-fought match. To top it off, he had none of the victors' adrenaline to keep him up. And so the awards ceremony slogged on by. The stadium was filled with shouts of _treble, treble, treble_. He would later learn (through the papers) that it was the first time a Spanish team won three in a row. At the moment, all he could concentrate on was how it ought to have been _their_ treble the crowds were celebrating. How they should have been the ones doing the dumb victory lap around the stadium.

The ceremony ended but they were not allowed to slink off in peace. Reporters and cameramen swarmed through the stands, snapping two photos per second and asking questions at an even faster rate. _Did you expect it, how do you feel, was there anything you could have done,_ and so forth. Thankfully, security appeared before Cristiano was tempted to strangle a newspaperman on live television, and they were permitted to enter the locker room and change out of their cleats. The team did so in deathly silence and it was with a similarly morose atmosphere that they trooped onto the bus.

-

As soon as Cristiano was back in the hotel room, he shucked off his clothes and climbed into bed. With a slam of his palm the lights were turned off and he closed his eyes, concentrating on deep and steady breaths. The rational part of him said it wasn't the end. So what if the league was over, the qualification matches for the World Cup hadn't finished. There would be more opportunities to play.

But it was no use.

His mind kept returning to the match. His own failures flashed before him again and again. The reporters and their questions were blended into the mess and his own mind was eager to supply alternative winning scenarios. What if he had passed to Ji-Sung. What if Wayne had made his shot. What if Tevéz was subbed in earlier. What if Edwin hadn't fallen for the trick.

What if, what if, what if --

He gave a bellow of pure frustration at the slew of unanswerable questions, burying his fingers in his hair. _Not like this,_ he raged, but it was no use. The match was over, the season was done, Barcelona had triumphed, even if they didn't deserve to be in the finals in the first place, and the throne he had longed for was now farther than before. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried singing an old song, anything to drown out the hysterical screaming of the blaugranas -- oh, how he had come to hate their chant! -- but even the memories of home were insufficient.

Right on cue, his phone lit up with a text. It was from his sister, typing on behalf of his mother.

 _You played a beautiful game_ , she told him. _And you'll always be the best footballer for me._

His mother didn't know. How could she? He was quick to respond, giving his thanks for her support and a promise to visit during the break before turning his phone off and shoving it under the pillow.

He ended up tossing and turning the night away. Whenever sleep deemed ready to take him, he was treated to an endless loop of Messi scoring in the sixty-ninth minute, as if United weren't already a point down.

-

2009-05-28 | Rome, Italy  
 _Rome Cavalieri @ Monte Mario_

When Cristiano woke at the crack of dawn the day after the finals, he felt more sore and _weary_ than he had in recent memory. Despite the lack of fitful sleep, he still looked fantastic. He went through his morning routine on autopilot and it was only after he stepped out of the shower that he thought to check his cellphone.

There was an outpouring of condolences and well-wishes. He noted with bitterness that Cesc had at least decided to answer him. Of course, now that they were both losers, there would be no bad blood, nevermind that -- as he said regarding the Euro's -- it would have been better to lose to first place and not second.

He took another breath, concentrating on scrolling through his messages.

When he came upon what he had been expecting, he nonetheless drew a sharp breath. It was a text from Gerard's phone, set at 3AM.

 _410 LM_ was all it said.

Because of course the organizers would put their teams in the same hotel.

For a moment, he was tempted to ignore the text. Let Messi wait for it, like he had made Cristiano wait for it in January. This urge was of course gnawed away by the aching curiosity. What would Messi be like, now that the tables were -- however temporarily -- turned?

It was a quarter past seven when Cristiano ran the buzzer for room 410. He was comparatively dressed down, with a baseball cap to boot. No sense in giving the press further stories. He replied to a couple messages as he waited outside. About five minutes later and Messi opened the door.

"Oh," he said, looking as if he had spent as much of the night asleep as Cristiano, "It's you."

"Yeah," Cristiano answered, a bit annoyed the other made no motion to let him in. Was it because someone else was inside, he wondered. Messi let out a long breath, squeezing the space between his eyes.

"If this is a bad time -- " Cristiano started.

"No, no, it's fine," Messi pressed his hands together and breathed out again. "Just -- give me five minutes, will you?" And then without further ado, he slammed the door in Cristiano's face.

Cristiano felt his right eye twitch. Here he was, always playing the courteous host, and then there was fucking Messi, who texted him from Gerard's phone at three in the morning and couldn't be bothered to let him in -- in a hotel crawling with reporters and cameramen? He furiously scrolled through his inbox, promising himself that he would leave if Messi didn't open the damn door in five minutes.

With twenty seconds to spare, the door opened again and Messi slipped out, suitcase in-tow. He was dressed in what appeared to be jogging gear.

"Sorry for that," he muttered, "You're free for the day, right?"

"...What?" Cristiano asked, still trying to make sense of the suitcase.

"C'mon, let's go to your room." Messi pulled up his hoodie and Cristiano followed him to the elevator.

"What's wrong with your room?" Cristiano demanded.

"It's in the wrong country."

"What?"

"I want to show you Barcelona. Come on."

"WHAT."

Cristiano put up a nominal protest, though curiosity got the better of him. He sent a hurried text to Ferguson, saying some business came up, and then they were off. Before he knew it, the two of them were seated in first class, en route to the blaugrana stomping grounds.

Messi was even less talkative than normal, providing no explanation for the sudden springing of plans besides both of them having some time off. Between the three shots of espresso and hour and a half of shut-eye, Cristiano ended up significantly more awake by the time they touched down in Barcelona.

-

2009-05-28 | Barcelona, Spain

 _Have fun on your daaaaate!_ Cesc managed to write before Cristiano turned off his phone and fought to maintain control.

It wasn't a date, he told himself.

It was just two footballers spending some time together off the pitch. Wearing piss-poor disguises that somehow allowed them to blend in with the throng of tourists indemic to any European metropolis. Messi led them expertly from the airport to the central train station (sending their suitcases via cab to the hotel Cristiano didn't even know had been booked) and from there to the city center. Cristiano was vaguely aware of the change of scenery before they were skipping ahead of the line for the Sagrada Familia.

He hadn't learned much about architecture and knew even less about cathedrals, but even he could admit it was a beautiful piece. He was just about to tell Messi this when the other grabbed his wrist and pulled him past the barricade.

"Quick," Messi urged, letting go of Cristiano's hand as he proceeded to take the stairs two at a time.

"What the -- " Cristiano started, but Messi was already out of sight. "Hey!" he exclaimed, "Wait a second, will you!"

"Come on," Messi called back. Cristiano rolled up his sleeves and yanked off his cap before following the other up. Up, up, up, they went. Around and around the closed-off spire. Cristiano was supremely grateful he had decided on loose-fitting slacks as opposed to jeans. For a while, the stairs were filled with the sound of their footsteps. He heard Messi stop at the front and, sure enough, saw the light at the end of the tunnel.

It was a beautiful day in Barcelona. The skies were clear and it was warm enough to wear short sleeves but not so warm as to be hot. The sun was still making its way up through the sky and from their vantage point, it seemed like the tallest points in the city had been speckled with gold.

Cristiano let the sight take his breath away. Then he remembered where he was and who he was with and whirled on the other.

"Are we even allowed to be here?" he demanded. It was a stupid question, in retrospect.

Messi grinned at him. "What do you think?"

"And how are we supposed to get out without people noticing?"

"Just like how we got in, I imagine."

Cristiano narrowed his eyes. "Do you often do this sort of thing?"

"Mm," Messi looked past him, at the city sprawled beneath him. His brown eyes sparkled in the sunlight. "I like the view here."

Cristiano sighed, looking upon it once more. It was magnificent, he could concede, even if they were trespassing. He wondered if Messi was trying to cheer him up over the loss in his own way. The two of them stood there for what could have been hours, watching people and cars bustle along the streets. It was so bright, so vibrant, and so very unlike Manchester or even London, that it made Cristiano long for Madeira. Perhaps the scene reminded Messi of Argentina too.

The silence was broken when his stomach growled.

Messi turned to him, cocking an eyebrow.

"No breakfast?" he asked.

"No," Cristiano scowled.

"Me neither. C'mon," he turned back the way they came, "There's a good place nearby." Later, Cristiano would learn that the building remained incomplete, that it was expected to take another decade or two. He would marvel at the sheer scale of things and tell himself he would definitely take his own children to see it, whenever they popped into existence, and he would insist on waiting in line and going up the public spires because someone needed to be a law-abiding citizen and set a good example for the future generation. Like Messi said, the two of them snuck out the same way they came in. As soon as they exited, Cristiano pulled his cap back on. Messi grinned at that before following suit with his hood.

He followed Messi through the streets, observing how he walked with his hands stuffed into his pockets and his head nearly tucked into his chin. Well, it was one way to avoid detection, he supposed. He tried it himself for a couple steps but ended up stumbling. Messi looked back at him, helpfully pointing and laughing and Cristiano huffed, only just refraining from stomping his foot.

The place Messi had in mind was a nameless menuless diner tucked away in the corner of Las Ramblas. There was an iridescent cockatrice on the front door. The walk was nearly three kilometers and Cristiano was completely famished by the time they arrived.

"How do you call this nearby?" he complained as the two of them were escorted to a corner table.

"It's worth it," Messi shrugged. "Two of the usual please," he added to their server.

-

Like Messi said, the food at the diner was excellent -- mouth-wateringly good in fact. It was a pity they couldn't finish their portions as both of them were on dietary regimens even during the off-season (not so unusual, in all fairness, considering there remained international friendlies and World Cup qualifications).

After lunch it was another hour and a half to some weird-ass sculpture park. Actually, the whole day was extremely surreal. Messi was as quiet as ever, leading Cristiano from place to place and then expecting him to gaze on in awe at Barcelona's tourist hotspots. But he was making an effort and Cristiano was touched to receive it. Further compounding matters was how neither of them brought up the match or even football at all, seemingly content to wander up and down the tree-lined streets, poking fun at some of the odder fixtures in the park.

Following the park, it was another trek -- this time twice as long as the journey from the cathedral to the restaurant. To be fair, Messi _had_ asked if he wanted a taxi but Cristiano only shook his head, at that point determined he would keep up with the other both on the pitch and off it.

It was half past seven by the time they reached the Magic Fountain and Cristiano was certain they had walked ten, maybe even twenty, kilometers. He was also more hungry than tired and so followed Messi into a hotel restaurant which boasted a balcony view of the fountain.

-

"So," Messi started when the show concluded and the two of them were pushing leftovers from one side of the plate to the next, "How was it?"

Cristiano flashed a smile, "What do you think?"

"Shower and then sex?" Messi asked, swirling his wineglass as if he had asked after the weather.

The question went straight to his dick and Cristiano found his mouth suddenly dry. He didn't trust himself to speak. He reached for his own glass and drank the rest of the juice before nodding. 

-

Surprise, surprise, Messi had booked a suite for them in the same hotel. They were escorted from the restaurant to their room and no one raised an eyebrow at the single king-sized bed. Messi let him shower first which meant it was a heart-racing ten minutes as Cristiano concentrated on drying himself and not thinking about, well, _everything_.

It had all happened so suddenly, he wasn't sure what to make of it. Was Messi gloating or was he trying to console him? Was it a date, in the sense that it was meant to segue into their usual routine, or was it a one-off thing unrelated to the sex?

One thing was certain: in the helter-skelter of the past eight hours, Messi had managed what Cristiano couldn't: he had gotten Cristiano to set aside the final match.

Although he didn't have football on his mind all the time, he usually needed more time than this to recover from a loss. Yet here he was, clad in nothing more than a bath towel and lounging opposite the balcony, waiting for Messi to come out of the shower and take his just desserts.

He flushed red at his own impatience and stood up to draw the curtains. It wasn't like he was ashamed of his preferences, it was just so strange to imagine doing it with Messi. Messi, who came up to his shoulder (if that) and whose skin was practically alabaster. Messi, who was leagues away from Cristiano's own type.

 _And yet here you are_.

The bathroom door opened. Cristiano turned to see the other man step out with a towel wrapped about his waist.

Messi's hair was slick, damp but no longer dripping, and there was a palpable hunger in his eyes as he swept his gaze across the room. With mild relief, Cristiano saw there was a bottle of lube in his right hand.

"Come here," Messi intoned, settling himself on the bed so that his shoulders leaned up against the plush headboard.

Cristiano went, slipping out of the bathrobe and sliding gracefully onto the bed. He moved to straddle the other, maintaining eye contact the whole time, and Messi keened at the contact, running his hands up Cristiano's thighs.

"Fuck," he murmured, "You don't know how long I've waited for this." He leaned forward, laving at the space between neck and shoulder. Cristiano stiffened when he bit down.

"No marks," he warned, taking a page from Messi's book.

"No marks," Messi repeated, drawing circles with the tip of his tongue. His hands left Cristiano's sides as he went to upcap the lube. Then he was coating his fingers in it and sliding the first one in. Cristiano dug his fingers into Messi's shoulders, twisting a little when Messi pressed knowingly against his prostate.

"Like that, hm?" Messi asked as Cristiano felt heat pool into his chest. Cristiano nodded, determined not to moan, and soon enough Messi was adding a second finger, gingerly opening him up.

Somewhere between the second and third finger, Messi shifted forward so that Cristiano's back was against the bed. The towel about his waist fell to the floor, forgotten. With three fingers bunched up inside, he took Cristiano's leg, looping it so that it hooked against his shoulder. Cristiano threw his head back and moaned, even more aroused with the change in positions. He was fully aroused then and leaking precum onto his stomach.

Messi hummed with satisfaction, reaching forward to brush damp hair from his face before thumbing at the diamond stud on Cristiano's ear. He seemed content to waste the whole evening like that and no amount of bucking or grinding would get him to speed things up.

"Enough already," Cristiano rasped, finding his voice in desperation, "Just fuck me already."

"Don't you want to come first?"

"Fuck, no."

"Alright then." He was still smiling as he withdrew his fingers, reaching again for that damnable bottle. Cristiano was trembling with anticipation: he knew he wanted this, wanted it now more than anything, but he was made painfully aware of how he might have wanted it from the get-go. Messi stroked his ear again, making uncharacteristic hushing noises as he lined himself up.

"Fuck," Cristiano hissed, eyes fluttering from sensory overload. "Fuck," he said again, as Messi gave another wretched hum, sliding in a little bit more.

His hands were wrapped tight around Messi's arms, as if uncertain whether to pull him closer or keep him at bay. Messi was infuriating however, canting his hips back and forth so that he was sliding in and out of Cristiano even before being fully sheathed.

It was too much all at once. The closeness of their bodies, the weight of Messi's gaze, how he refused to sink himself in fully.

"Please," he heard himself begging. It was practically an out of body experience.

"Please what?" Messi asked. His eyes twinkled in understanding and Cristiano wanted to punch him. Or kiss him.

"Please," Cristiano repeated, rolling his hips and spreading his legs a little wider. Messi leaned forward, kissing him on the cheek, and in a smooth motion, slid forward so that he was fully sheathed. Cristiano cried out when it was done, vision swimming with pleasure. Yes, please, more, more, _more_ , he heard himself say. And Messi obliged, pulling away and grabbing ahold of Cristiano's hips before setting a furious pace.

Just like when the positions were reversed, Messi was the first to come. Cristiano groaned at the sensation, canting his hips upward yet again. He removed his hand from Messi's arm, fully intent on finishing himself off, but Messi swatted it away, tsk'ing as he did so. Then he reached between the two of them, taking hold of Cristiano's cock, and began to pump him at a similarly merciless speed.

"It's not so bad, is it?" Cristiano distinctly recalled hearing as he was cresting through his own orgasm, "Being beneath me."

Messi was right, in that it wasn't bad at all, and therein lay the true shame.

-

They cleaned themselves up in silence as they had always done. Cristiano threw the used tissues to the floor, feeling the tendrils of discontentment wrapping themselves around him.

 _Is this it?_ , a voice demanded of him, _Is second place the farthest you can now go?_

"United is finished," Messi said as he was pulling his own clothes back on.

Cristiano blinked, returning to the present, and looked askance at the other.

"You don't know that," he protested.

"It has nothing left to give you." And there they were, the damning words that had been smeared in the papers for months.

"You don't know that," Cristiano repeated. Wounded pride welled up in him, though it was only delaying the inevitable. He had known this, known it going into the stadium in Rome even. But he would be damned if Messi was the one who got him to admit it.

"Come to Barcelona," Messi said again. "You'll like it."

A madman's laugh burbled out of him. His shoulders shook as he tried to contain it until it was no use. It spilled from his lips like poison and he laughed and he laughed. Messi stood there, halfway between the bed and the door, and watched on.

"Is that what this has been about?" Cristiano asked, gesturing to the city he had been given a whirlwind tour of, "Is this how your club recruits members?" And then: "Is this how you got Gerard to join you?"

Messi's eyes flashed in anger.

"Géri came on his own."

"Did he now?" Cristiano taunted, affecting skepticism.

"Of course he did. We're the better club, anyone with eyes can see that."

"That may be so," Cristiano admitted, and his answer was as much in response to Messi's offer as it was to the dark voices in the back of his mind, "But it's not good enough." He pushed his hair back, filled with a sudden surety, and continued with: "I won't join Barça. Not now, not ever."

For an instant, he thought he saw a hurt expression on the other. But then Messi blinked, rearranging his features into one of calm disinterest.

"Is that so."

"It is," Cristiano answered, "And do you know why?"

"Why."

"Because I've come too damn far to settle for second place."

The snarl that overtook Messi was a beautiful thing. He stepped forward, fists clenched, before turning on his heel and striding out the door. He slammed it shut with a curse, leaving Cristiano alone in the hotel room.

Cristiano was naked, sore, and still in second place. But as a shit-eating grin made its way across his face, he realized he was no longer bitter. This was a minor set-back in the grand scheme of things. So long as he wasn't on Barcelona, so long as he wasn't playing on a team that had Lionel fucking Messi as its central player, he could claw his way up again.

 _Just you wait_ , he promised, turning off the lights and letting sleep overtake him. Messi was a surmountable obstacle. And for him, there had only ever been the throne.


	14. 2009-06-11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's done! Thanks very much for following this fic and for your kind words of support! I can't emphasize enough how nervous I was, writing for this ship and this fandom! But I had lots of fun and hope you did too. xoxo

2009-06-11 | Madrid, Spain  
 _Press Conference Regarding the Record-Breaking Transfer of Cristiano Ronaldo from Manchester United to Real Madrid_

With the sheer amount of cameras flashing at him, Cristiano felt like he was at another awards ceremony. It was a ceremony, in any case. Proof of his own worth. For if he were not the best player in the world, how would he be able to net the highest transfer fee in history?

As he was fielding questions left and right, someone in the back row shouted out:

"Does Lionel Messi have anything to do with your transfer?"

And like that, a hush fell upon the room.

Cristiano smiled for the cameras, pretending to think for a moment before answering.

"It is true that I enjoyed playing against him," he started, "And that I look forward to future meetings on the pitch. But to say he was the main reason for my transfer is an exaggeration." He pasted on his brightest smile and prayed Messi was watching. "He got lucky once, it won't happen again."

_Translation: I'm taking back my title._

-

When the press conference was over and he had finished shaking hands with every executive in Real, Cristiano took a moment to look through the hundred-strong missed messages.

One text stood out from the others. It was from an unknown number. The message itself was empty but there was a photo attached to it.

Cristiano opened it.

He was treated to the Champions League trophy. There was a message scrawled on a post-it stuck on the side.

Upon zooming in, he saw it read:

_10' & 70'_

He chuckled at the jibe, shaking his head, and quickly texted back:

_Enjoy it while you can._

And like that, the game spilled into overtime.


End file.
